The New Remnant Ostracon
by Walker of the shattered tundra
Summary: (Crossover with NEO Scavenger) Everyone's favorite amnesiac murder hobo, Philip Kindred has gotten himself into a whole new kind of mess. In his search to find who erased his memories and why, the man finds himself no longer in post-apocalyptic Michigan, but instead in the world of Remnant. While here he finds his skills might not be enough to survive a place yet harsher than home.
1. A Grimm introduction for Phil

DISCLAIMER: I don't own RWBY. Big surprise there eh? All rights go to Rooster Teeth.

NEO Scavenger belongs to Blue Bottle Games. So I own absolutely nothing, except maybe the idea for this crossover.

* * *

A prologue of sorts.

(Minor spoilers for NEO Scavenger involved, skip if you want.)

The Merga Wraith. A terrifying mass of phantasmal energy, a specter, and an aberration of nature that did not belong in the world. To many it was a myth, a horror story unneeded when there were already more then enough things to be scared of in the broken shell that was once Michigan. The Dogmen, massive werewolf like creatures of pure bloodlust and aggression. The Melonheads, what may have once been people, now misshapen things with no higher consciousness. Marauding packs of raiders, bandits, slavers, and worst of all the cannibals. And of course, the wildlife. Wolves, Bears, feral dogs and more. All that and more, why even old military death-bots were not unheard of, if rare.

Few knew that the Wraiths were real. Those that did know didn't for long, as the sight of them would cause a lesser man to falter. Then the cold grasp of its ethereal claws would latch onto them and they would feel the life fade away from them. Others who did know of them ran at the mere mention. But there was one man that the Wraiths hunted. Protected by old Native American mysticism in the form of a bronze talisman on a braided leather string. Locked away in a Cryo-facility, his memories wiped, perhaps by the old-world government. Whatever the cause of his amnesia, Philip Kindred knew his name. When he awoke one day cold, and naked but for a medical gown and a strange necklace, to the sound of a Dogman seeking its next meal from the suspension pods, he reacted not knowing what is was he was doing. His body was Strong, and his muscles remembered some form of training even if his mind did not. Melee prowess and adrenaline combined, breaking the post sleep haze.

His body reacted, and he struck down the Dogman. Brutally. He'ed repeatedly slammed its head into the doorframe until it died. It was so awesome he grabbed the recording from the facility's security cameras. Mind there was a bit of trouble when he tried to skin the thing with only a few shards of broken glass. And yet the ragged crude cloak he made from that single dead monster became his calling card. Over the course of several months Philip made his way around Michigan seeking answers. He learned skills to improve his chances of survival. How to Hide, to Track. How to pick locks, and how to read the land. While he sought his memories, or some sign of what had happened to the world he had once known, some knowledge came back to him. He remembered plants, Botany, and how to sew and Tailor his own clothes. He remembered how computers worked, the ins and outs. How to hack into computers, phones, and tablets, as they often had valuable files stored inside he could sell.

Yes, the new world was harsh, and it's lessons unforgiving. A lost eye, broken bones, and scars tell the tale of a man who has fought tooth and nail, with ridiculous amounts of ingenuity to even survive. And find Cigarettes. And get clean water. Or hell even a working lighter would be nice to find every now and then. Ragged knives made of scrap metal, spears made with jagged plastic points, and rags for shoes. Over time his legend grew. The story of this one man, who sought out and slew an entire band of Bad Muthas, intent upon raiding and eating a small caravan of DMC outcasts. The battle was long and yet seemed over so soon. He stood bleeding from many wounds, an arm hanging limply at his side, and blood dripping from his mouth. The leader had had a hefty club, but it had mattered little to Phillip. He was not just Tough, he was entirely Unstoppable. Normal wounds and some that would be fatal to a lesser man he could just shrug off and keep fighting on. His reputation grew across the land, and he became known as 'Cannibals Bane'. Soon and after many near death experiences he sought out the ATN Enclave. A stronghold of the Anishinaabe nation. They were what remained of the land's Native American tribes and many other earnest souls seeking only to survive.

There he learned why he wore the Talisman, and why his subconscious mind screamed danger whenever he thought to take it off. He was once an online archivist, collecting legends and all manner of supernatural, or seemingly occult happenings throughout the world. It was meticulous and not at all something done lightly. He had researched, cross-referenced and fact checked all of the information upon the site. With this knowledge and the recipe for a drink called Tanin tea, he went back to where it all began. The Gyges Cyro Facility. There he checked the records once more, but this time with his rememberings of how to hack into the place's databanks. He found he was awakened not by chance, but that the funds in a bank account in Detroit connected to the pod had ran out. He then set out for the DMC. After a harrowing trip across the wilds once more he learned he could not even enter the walled city, with its massive security forces and gates. A man called Hatter approached him, and offered him a job, having heard of his exploits. In return he offered a security bracelet which acted as an ID to get into the city's walls. Philip said no. Instead he offered the all but forgotten footage of his awakening.

The clip of film was well received. As a matter of course, hatter muttered that his guards would need some more training. They muttered about in awe as they saw what others had only heard of, a near-naked man fighting down what was regarded as the most fearsome beast with seeming ease. Afterwards he made to enter the city. Hatter asked if more work turned up would Philip consider it? He agreed that if a different job turned up, and if the pay was right, he might. And so, he entered the city seeking the bank which only might hold answers. But who was he to let a trip the city be without a restock on supplies? There he found the Haggerty Health Clinic and found out that he could get a new eye there. After performing many more trips back and forth into and out of the wilds to scavenge what valuables he could, bartering and haggling for every penny he could scrounge up he bought one. And after he patented and sold the recipe for that antibiotic wonder called Tanin tea, which was only made with tree bark, he got some upgrades on that eye too. Telescoping lenses and a setting for Night Vision, he found his natural eye lacking. So, he had that fixed up as well, getting his Myopia cured.

With his vision unhindered, and a slow mutation occurring unknowst to him in his natural eye, he returned to the bank. He'd gotten a little side tracked. He approached the teller and began asking about his account. After a rather unhelpful conversation and a misunderstanding that caused him to nearly be arrested later, he learned about an apartment linked to the account's other holder. There he found teenage angst in a 20-something and another bout with the cops. This time they seemed to want him dead. Not bothering to try and learn why Philip fled, barley managing to escape. After grabbing a bite to eat at a particularly delightful diner, that had real food! Leaving a tip, he snuck out of the city figuring he might get out while the getting good. He then sold the bracelet, knowing that there was a tracker in it. When they tried to track him down all they would find would be just another random ruin looter. With a nice sum for the bracelet lining his pocket he was once more approached by Hatter.

In a bout of coincidence that could not possibly be unconnected, Hatter needed him to go the military camp over in Grayling. There he would have to put a small thumb drive into the main server and the rest would be history. Finding this suspicious but kind of owing the guy Philip agreed to do this. Halfway there and after well over a year and a half of surviving, fighting, bleeding and nearly starving to death multiple times, the Talisman on his neck loosened. During his escape from the city he had weaved through passerby like a mad man. At some point a person had shoved him back as he ran past, grabbing at his neck. Not bothering to think about at the time or since he hadn't noticed that the tie on the back of the braided leather had been slightly torn.

* * *

Philip scratches at his neck, pushing aside the full-head rag mask he has on. Hope there's not a rash there again. He'll need to wash the sweat from it again soon. Spying a small creek nearby he shrugs, adjusting the straps on his backpack, careful not to jostle the sieve of crude pilums attached to the side. Walking over to the crick he surveys the area. Nothing in sight except a rabbit and some birds. He contemplates loosing a ball bearing from his sling at the small critter, perhaps an early lunch? Nah, he thinks, watching it hop away at his approach. Pulling the crudely stitched-almost-a-balaclava off he runs a hand though his greasy, crimson hair. It's getting long again, but he hesitates in the idea of hacking at it with a knife. Almost lost an ear last time when the knife snapped in half. Putting the mask in the water he starts scrubbing at it trying to get the blood out of it. Freaking Bad Muthas. You'd have thought that with how many of them he's killed they would avoid someone with his description. But no, only seems that more of them turn up now than ever.

Idlily scrubbing away Philips is completely oblivious as the jostling motion causes the weakened leather cord to finally give way. The world seems to slow to a crawl as he watches the small bronze symbol fall into the water. Behind him there is a roar of sound, and a blast of wind. "SHIT!" he bellows as he whirls around grabbing at one of the spears on the opposite side of his bag in particular. A mass of darkness is forming, a white and orange blaze at its center. The mass begins moving before it even fully forms, a slow steady approach, filled with emotionless menace. "Come on then! You've been hunting me for a long time, then haven't you? I didn't spend my time idle you monster! I prepared for this day." Philip taunts the phantasm. He hurls his spear at it, a smirk forming on his scarred face. This one is special. Along the haft of the spear are old Norse runes carved into the wood as well as several Japanese Kanji's. The blade is old industrial bronze he found at an abandoned construction site, that he forged and quenched in water infused with sage, and garlic. As the spear flies toward the Merga Wraith he reaches around to his back sheathe and pulls out his machete. Settling into a defensive stance he readies himself to dodge any form of retaliation.

As the spear impacts he feels more than hears it's cry of pain. The formless thing seems to recoil from the weapon that is now lodged in its mass. It groans, the chalk white mask that is its face shifting down to look at the spear. An arm seems to form and plucks the weapon from its from mass tossing aside as if it were naught but an inconvenience. The grin on Philips face fades. It had been a long shot to begin with, but it was worth the effort, on the off chance it did kill it. Could it even be killed? The Phantasm seems to purr as if it could sense his fear. It seemed content to just float over to him, either not being very fast or not caring now that it could harm him without the protection of the talisman. Philip reaches toward his belt with his left hand grasping at a holster and pulls out a .357 revolver. "Maybe lead will do you one better." He quickly fires off all four shots he had aiming at center mass, while sheathing the blade held in his other hand. Two rounds go just to right of it, missing and causing no damage at all. One seems to ping off its mask, but the last hits the glowing core in its center. Trying to coordinate long range combat with different eyes has been even harder than when he'd only had the one. (At least that's what Philip tells himself. As a rule of thumb, he's just a dangerously bad shot)

It staggers back at the impact, wisps like black ink seem to bleed out of the wound in its core. Unbidden Philips left eye seems to glow with a dull silver light, his right a toxic, sick looking green the former being his remaining natural eye. With a bellow of sudden, murderous rage he charges the phantom, its weak spot revealed. Grabbing a pair of long knives from the sheathes stitched into the calves of his pants, he leaps at the specter, a trail of silver mist leaking from his left eye. It recovers quickly and arms that were not entirely there, reach out and slash at him cutting clean through one of the knives and gashing his left forearm open to the bone. It seems to melt though the three layers hardened leather sewn to overlap the heavy grey long shirt he's wearing. The other arm Philip parries to the side with his knife and then jams the blade held in his right through one of the empty eyeholes of its mask. He leaps back leaving the blade inside and grabs at his wounded arm, trying to stem the gouts of blood pouring out.

He back-peddles heavily and tosses his bag to the ground. He looks over at the Wraith checking the distance he's made. It reaches up and pulls the knife from its face and regards it for a moment, before tossing it aside. It's slow, unceasing approach is foreboding in the extreme. He pulls the bag open disconnecting the zipper which he knows will bug him later, but only if he manages to survive this encounter. Grabbing at an unopened pack of emergency bandages he looted from an old medkit, and his sheathe of pilums and spears, he races off into the woods off the side of the stream. Leaving his kit might be the death of him later, but that's preferable to the nearly immediate death of the now.

Tearing the package open with his teeth he draws another knife from the pouch on the side of his belt. Or at least he tried to anyway. Instead he glances at the multi-tool in his hand only long enough to pull out the tiny blade from its side. Raggedly cutting the now blood-soaked sleeve off at the elbow nicking a few cuts on his upper arm in the process he then wraps the bandages right over the wound. The adhesive compound that coats it makes sure that it doesn't fall off, but this will only hold for a little while.

Grunting at the sting he mutters. "Knew I should have worn my leather shirt today…" He looks back and sees the wraith still just floating towards him, unwavering and unrelenting. "Dam it. How do I kill this thing?" He looks straight at it and thinks. If only his eye wasn't hurting so much it would be easier to do that! A sudden Jab of pain stabs him directly behind the afore mentioned eye. Philip gasps at the suddenness of it and smacks himself on the side of his head. The pain gets sharper after he does that. Grabbing his head in both hands he screams. The pain grows until it seems to explode like a wave of daggers protruding from behind his left eye. He screams out and instinctively gazes over at the Wraith unaware due to the pain. The ground around him shudders and the trees sway and the grass seems to burn and grow anew all in one instance. And then it stops. Shaking his head, now only a dull, throbbing ache remaining he looks over at the wraith, only to see it nearly half petrified. Realizing he fell over he stands up, steadying himself against the side of a tree. "The fuck?"

It's mask-like face turns toward him, ever emotionless and blank. A roar echoes out of the Wraith, shaking the ground again although to a much lesser degree. The stone-like substance slowly flakes off it, scattering on the ground or drifting off into the wind. The creature shudders, its mass reduced by nearly a third, until more off the inky blackness seems to spring forth from the glowing core at its center. "Like hell I'll let you heal!" Philip cries grabbing up a spear. Grasping it with both hands and setting his stance he looks right at where he's gonna jam the blade at the end. 'Needs to be that glowing core else, it won't do much if anything at all. It floats, so weightless? Either way drive it back over to where my pack is, don't, can't leave that here. Think about stone skin thing later.'

With a reasonable sounding plan Philip charges at the Merga Wraith a war cry upon his lips. The plan immediately goes wrong. Unquestionably, inevitably unavoidably wrong. As he charges he slips on a patch of gravel or sand or something of that sort. His mind tends to wander all over when that sort of thing happens or when his death is imminent it seems. How odd is that. Why even now he's wondering about that wondering that he does as if he's about to die. And que potential pre-death headache about existential thinking.

As his mind gains a different sort of headache, the spear slips from his hands and flies true all the same. It whistles through the air and pierces the corrupt 'heart' of the specter. However, the thing had gotten close in the small bout of thought and planning Philip had delegated to himself about how to kill it. It lands a thin gash on his back, several lines cutting through the toughed skin of his Dogman cloak, and the insulated layers of cloth that made up a crude gambeson-like vest. He crashes to the ground, both his pride and his back wounded. Gathering his bearings Philip back somersaults and flips up into the air landing on the balls of his feet, reaching around his back once more ignoring the spike of pain the twisting motion causes. From across his back he once more pulls his machete, only then does he see the blind shot he managed to make out of sheer luck.

"Well at least no one saw that. My rep would be crippled." He thinks for a second. "then again," he says walking over to the dissolving mass of ichor that is feebly clawing at the haft trying to pull it out of its core. "Maybe knowing even my up fucks can kill things would help." He pauses as he nears the mass and checks his mental backlogs. He shrugs, once again glad no one was around to see this. He might have to get his head checked.

He approaches the phantom again and stands over it. It looks dead. Doesn't have a smell so that's a non-sequencer for a check. He's not dumb enough to touch it with his hands. But a kick or two? Does that even count as dumb? Nah, it's fun. Never listen to those people that call you a sociopath. If they're wrong who cares, and if they are right then you don't care anyway. This'll teach that ghost thing to mess with me! But first the bag, of stuff! That is his! Wow this headache is extremely debilitating!

After grabbing his pack, Philip strolled over to the 'corpse?' of the Merga wraith. However much to his displeasure, the body, term being used lightly since it was partially incorporeal, was gone. All that was there was a… a portal… That's a portal.

'Well I'm suffering perhaps a mild concussion, Low-moderate levels of blood loss…' Philip looks over at his arm. He then reaches around to his back with his uninjured are wincing silently at the pain. The blood seems to have crusted over somewhat due to his seemingly accelerated healing rate, but he can feel it still oozing out from the narrow, deep cuts. 'Correction, High-Moderate blood-loss, I'm out of bullets, my super-awesome-hyper-mystic-rune spear of extra-awesome didn't do piss to that thing… … … wow does my head hurt… …and why is everything spinning'

Why does it all look so slow and… shapeeeyish? Ish? Is that even a word? Hey, looks like I'm falling over now. That whole in space-time looks like fun. Let's aim for it.

Blackness fades over his vision as his consciousness fades. As he slumps down his eyes closing his mind has a flash of clarity, and a lightning bolts worth of momentary insanity. That fight. It seemed more like a test than anything else. But that couldn't possibly be what it was, right? As he descends into Morpheus all he can feel is the sense of vertigo that comes from falling, and trepidation.

* * *

The whistling of wind, the sound of the wildlife, why even the Grimm are slumbering in this great lull. The kind of lull known as…summer vacation! It doesn't matter whether you were just fresh out of combat school, or a soon to be returning forth year student at one of the huntsman academes. When the hottest days of the year hit you got a break. Especially if you lived in Vacuo. But here in Vale, over the Emerald forest the quiet sounds of sleeping Beowolves and snoring Ursa are undisturbed. With the camera installation crews having finished their work two weeks prior no nearby humans have let the creatures of darkness rest. That was until a massive explosion occurred right smack dab in the middle of the old stone ruins. A low *boom* that echoed not through the air but in their essence. One of their kind, different but the same, had been slain. It was old, and even arrogant in its power. That had been its undoing. But the Grimm here? They were young, dumb, relativity weak, and eager. A good combo for aspiring young Huntsman and Huntresses, who were unlikely to run into anything they couldn't handle.

But for a dimensional displaced man with no Aura, who was wounded no less? They could be his end in a heartbeat. Normally that is. But in the case of one Philip Kindred, being surrounded on all sides by murderous beasts all seeking your end? That was just a Thursday. He hated Thursdays. And Tuesdays. And any other day that entailed waking in an unknown location with severe wounds, a headache worse than the time he downed an entire bottle of 140-year-old whisky, and probably only a third of his proper kit. Mismatched eyes, one of silver that was shedding tears of blood, and one of steel, copper and a toxic, vibrant green that had been knocked loose of its housing. The silver one opens, the other sparks. "Uggghh." Philip sits up.

Bringing his uninjured arm up to his face he probes at the external metal plating fused to his skull. Seems the optic has been shaken out of it housing. Popping the optic orb back in caused his tunnel vision to clear, and relieved part of the throbbing pain behind his frontal lobe. The eyes internal systems were intact, and they began syncing up to his nerve endings once more, cycling through the various modes: Night vision, Telescopic magnifications 2x–5x, Normal sight, Thermal… well that's new. He didn't remember getting the thermal package software unlocked. Maybe getting knocked around some had rattled it. Despite making no sense as to why it was unlocked Philip just shrugged, and then winced as the pain returned. Standing up he checks the area for foes. Not a single thing in sight. 'Make use of the lull, it won't last if my luck keeps as it is right now.'

Memories of the previous fight run around his mind. Pulling his pack down he looks the busted zipper. Grumbling as he jams the thing back into place he begins to run inventory: A dozen and a half cigarettes. Two books of strike matches, and three lighters, one a third full. Machete. Two knives left. Crowbar on a shoulder strap. One good spear left for melee use, two so-so ones for throwing. .357 Revolver, no bullets. Sling, 13 ball bearings, 20 some odd stones at the bottom of the bag. Seven bottles of Water purified for drinking. Three packs of unopened, sterile bandages. Half a bottle of whisky, antiseptic use. Flare gun, three flares for use in gun, 4 for signaling if needed.

Tin can with… a lot of berries and mushrooms inside. Other can with… Lockpicks and sewing needles. Six feet of misc. string and thread. Gas mask, two half used filter cartridges. And all my clothes that I'm wearing, fairly ruined by now. Dogman fur cloak, still ragged, still warm and still metal AF. Good gloves, fingerless. Sturdy boots from the City, actual matching pair. In the pockets, 4 memory sticks, can't remember what's on them.

Pulling off his cloak, the thickened cloth vest and finally his shirt Philip opens one of the other packs of bandages and starts running them around his chest and back, the built-in adhesive sticking clean over the sweat, dirt, and dried blood. It's gonna smart like none other when he has to take it off, chest hair and all that. Bruises of all shapes and sizes litter his exposed torso in all stages of healing, some new, others faded. A dozen scars cover his chest, stab wounds, bullet scars, bites and burns. His arms are no better off, even worse in fact. A man can live without an arm, but organs need to be protected. So, when the options are to get disemboweled or get your arm chewed on we all know which option he'd take.

Dense, compact muscle is his form, as bulk would only get in the way. He looks over the gash on his wounded arm, seeing it scabbed up on the bandage leaves it there. Pull it off in a week and a new scar will add to the road-map of scar tissue he has everywhere. Another thing Philip is not the best at. Medicine. Most of the scars he has could have been avoided with proper stitching and care but that is not a thing he's very capable with.

His face is blocky, and as some would say, rather square jawed. A weeks' worth of dark ginger stubble is broken up by a scar that leads from the bottom of his right check, under the metal plate and cybernetic eye, and up to his forehead, where it stops a good inch into his hairline. It is not an ugly face, but is angular and rugged, with cold ruthless eyes. Those same eyes look over his once intact shirt, missing half a sleeve. To be fair it was a size to small even before he added the boiled-leather plates over it, but now might at well just lose both the sleeves. Reaching into one the ever-helpful pouches he pulls out the multi-tool once more. Unfolding it to the plier configuration he starts plucking the stitching on the plates to see if he can save some of the material.

About seven minutes later he stares down at a long-sleeved shirt missing half of an arm. Carefully cutting just after the seam he removes the sleeves from it and tries placing the leather in a few different configurations before settling on just re-enforcing the shoulders and the upper chest, similar to how football pads used to look. Not that football has existed for nearly, maybe two centuries? The man doesn't have an exact number of years he was in stasis for. Nearly half an hour later and with a finished set of pseudo-pauldrons he stands up and puts them on. Little snug but still has full range of motion.

Nodding once he begins placing all of the items back into his bag, bar two cigs, and a lighter. Lighting up he takes a long drag on the dry, old tobacco. Drawing on the cigarette again he pulls on his cloak, the dark brown fur matted and covered in blood and detritus from travel. Exhaling smoke out his nose he shoulders his pack, placing the unlit tube behind an ear. The sun is still high in the sky, he's in a wide-open space with no cover. Has been for nearly an hour now in fact. Seems strange nothings attacked him yet.

He sighs. "Probably just jinxed myself on that one." He surveys the area around him. Stone structures, derelict, old. Walking up to a pillar nearby he runs his hand over it and pulls it back feeling dust, and smooth weather-worn stone. Correction, ancient. Style, appears old roman work, but the stone is different, possibly local. Forest, deciduous, unknown species of tree. Seems similar to oak, vines noted and some tall grasses. Low to chest height shrubbery and bushes, Giant Dogman with bone-spikes protruding from everywhere. Native wildlife seems to be hostile, more murderous versions of the stuff from home. Guess I went to hell. "Ah, shit."

"I shall name you Murphey, for you are the testament to my ability to ruin a perfectly good day." The mutant Dogman, now Murphey, lefts out a huff of air and cocks its head to the side. "What, were you hoping I'd be scared? All I see is a better, newer cloak!" The beast howls into the sky, and he relies that taunting it may have been a bad idea, as many more howls are heard in reply. A low tenor voice of pure and utter loathing and contempt, with a side of adrenaline mutters, "I hate Thursdays." As he spits the spent cigarette onto the ground the mutant Dogman charges blindly. As he grabs up a spear more appear from the undergrowth nearby. "Time for a party then, with blood confetti!"

_-Meanwhile, in Beacons security room, ten minutes later-_

Loud snoring fills the room, as a large man with a mustache far bigger then his face, sits back in a chair. Many camera feeds lead to the screens in front of him, and a series of alert pings are flashing red and blinking. But down toward the bottom left corner of each screen shows a small little speaker icon with a line through it. Nothing would disturb this mighty hunters' escapades in his search for the elusive albino Goliath! Not even the pesky flashing of the cops' lights behind him. Or were they in front of him? Why were there cops in the Grimmlands? Wait a moment…

*POP*

"WHaaa? Who dares interrupt the mighty hunt for albino goliath?!" Grumbling as he straightens out his shirt, Peter Port wipes some drool from his chin. "Almost had it that time no less. Well then let us see what the ruckus is." Giggling to himself, Peter spins the chair as he pushes off with his feet. Laughing his way over to the flashing screens his mirth dies instantly. Narrow eyes widen until even his pupils are visible. Fumbling for a few seconds he opens his scroll and selects the option in his contact list "Teacher's Conference" Across campus rings are heard. It might be summer break for the students, but half the job of a Beacon Professor is making sure the Grimm from the Emerald forest don't make it over the cliffs. That and to keep the numbers relatively culled, so as the students aren't killed instantly when they are sent into it for initiation.

The first to pick up was the icon know as 'Barty Boy' "Yes peter? What is it I'm rather busy setting up my lesson plans." "Forget your lessons Oobleck! We have a code yellow at the ruins with what appears to be..." Port pauses and look back the screens. "I think it's a homeless man of some sort. He's surrounded by nearly five dozen Beowolves and is fighting them off with a stick! Or no, that's a spear."

"Is this one of your pranks Port? I have better things to do than listen to you retell your dreams." "No, it is not a dream!" another caller profile shows up, this one nicknamed 'The real boss' "Yes Port? Hello Bartholomew." Goodwitch nods at the screen. "Port was just regaling me with another of his 'missions' weren't you Peter?" "GAH! I am not joking! We have a code yellow that is turning into a code orange as we speak!" Port slides the chair over to the command console and fiddles with a few dials and knobs. "Look!" Forwarding the video feed over to the call the other professors of Beacon seem to be jostled into action. On the feed is what appears to be some type of self-taught amateur, judging by his skill. The cameras show him wielding a spear and a machete with crude technique, but terrible precision and Strength, stabbing and hacking at limbs and joints. However, he is surrounded, his back against a curved stone wall with multiple pedestals around. Many Beowolves lie fading on the ground as more swarm over each other trying to get at him.

"That's the artifact location for this year's initiation correct?" Goodwitch asks. "Yes, it is. I'll prep up a Bullhead for transport. Port keep us updates on what's happening down there." Oobleck orders. "Right." "If he moves lets us know. Glynda?" "I'll meet you at the airfield." She glances down at the screen just in time to see a Beowolf lunge at the man. He intersects the movement with his spear, letting the immature Grimm spit itself on it. It slides down the haft (is that a wooden handle?) till it reaches him. Faster than he can react it lands a blow with its claws, drawing deep gouges over his upper arm, blood flying out. "His Auras out! If we want more than a body, we need to go."

A final icon connects to the call, this one 'Oz'. "What's this about peter…" Ozpin begins only to catch the video being streamed. His normally passive face hardens as he gazes at the images. He sees something flash. A thing so sudden he thinks he may have imagined it. Shocked he zooms in on the film, toward the man's face. "Silver eyes." "What was that headmaster? Are you aware of the situation?" Peter asks. Shaking his head no Port fills him in. "See to it that man survives. I am rather curious as to why he is here, and whom he might be."

Ozpin sinks down into his own thoughts. _Another with the silver eyes. I thought Summer was the last, with Ruby being the only hope remaining. That another should appear here and now. What does it mean? Who are you, and where do you come from? Are there more out there?_ He pulls a mug up to his lips, grimacing, the coffee cold. A loud rush of air and noise signify the Bullhead flying by out to the Emerald forest. He tracks it as it moves, noticing that it is moving at speeds well over the recommended maximum, a faint purple glow surrounding it. It would seem that he is not the only one who has noticed his eyes. Despite the severity of the situation at hand he let's a tiny fraction of a smirk grace his face. Letting Glynda in the know seems to have been a good choice.

* * *

Panting with exertion Philip hacks off another arm that just tried to pull his head off. The red wound taunts him, as no blood spews out, only with another yipe of pain. Loosing a cry of rage, and of pain, he chops through the external skull of the strange, bloodless Dogman. They. Just. Don't. Stop! He's getting dizzy again, his own blood dripping having turned into a literal puddle below him. He'd tried to make a wall of corpses to funnel the dam things, but the bodies disappeared, fading away into the wind. They are just like the Merga Wraith, yet unrelenting and with numbers in the dozens. His is mind hyper-focused into combat mode, just enough of his active consciousness remains to keep him aware of his surroundings. He's never had to deal with this many opponents at once since the dammed Fairgrounds way up in Allegan. MellonHeads are also a hell of a lot easier to kill than Dogmen mind you. But mutated Merga-Dogman Hybrid monstrosities that dissipate when killed? "If this is Hell it needs to try better!" Philip blusters.

The sound and rational part of his mind can hear something other than his ragged breathing and the howls of the Merga-Wolves. Merga-Wolves? Seems a good name for the dam things. That buzzing turns into a rumble. Maybe it's a drone? At least bullets would kill him faster. The only ones that have that kind of tech are the DMC. Death by a literal thousand cuts, or death by Railgun? Time seems to slow as he reaches around and into his back pack. His hand searches before coming to rest on the handle of the fare gun. Pulling it out and aiming it into the air he fires, the blinding light seeming to stun the Merga-Wolves for a moment. But it was only a moment. A claw slashes down his back drawing bloody furrows, hitting bone. The slash of the Wraith was clean, surgical. This one is ragged the talons serrated feeling. His bag with all his supplies is ripped off and sent flying into the mass of bodies.

He can feel the horrid pain shock his system back into over drive. "rrrRRraaaaaaGHHHHHH!" Philip explodes in rage, a wave of fear spreading from him at the sound. He chucks the empty flare gun at the nearest beast. Some of the bigger ones seem to hesitate, the ones with more plating. An even greater bellow lurches forward, through the mass of Merga-Wolves, smaller specimens being flung into the air or driven into the ground. A massive boar, nearly eight feet tall at the shoulder, white bone plating layered overtop its front. It snorts, and the lesser creatures recede before its might. Philip looks at the thing. Its plating is pitted, even chipped in some places. It tears at the ground, a challenge so ingrained into its base species, even its corrupt nature cannot overrule it. Philip shakes his head, as he strikes down another of the smaller mutated Dogmen, without its plating yet.

'Big Bacon' his mind tells him as he looks at the massive boar. He's bled so much his skin is beginning to pale. All he has left is the machete and a crude scrap knife. His shirt is in tatters, left arm useless. Even his mighty Dogman Fur cloak has been torn to pieces. (To be fair it was all but toast already). Sweat drips down his body, the salt stinging the ridiculous number of wounds he has sustained. He's exhausted and has been fighting for almost fifteen minutes against a type of foe that, all things considered, is considerably less deadly than a standard Dogman one-on-one. But you know, they were like, unlimited. He looks behind it to see his pack on the ground. The thing huffs, then moves to block the bag from his sight. 'It's smart, older. Not good, I'm burning fumes here. Scratch that not even fumes left. I'm gonna probably here. Huh. Wonder what's that's like. Dying that is.' A tremor shakes through his left hand. The knife drops from it as he brings it up to his ear. Pulling the last Cigarette from it he puts it to his lips.

He eyes the Piggy warily. It seems content to just let him be. As if it knows he can't escape. "Cocky piece of shit you are." Forcing the arm to cooperate he reaches into a pants pocket pulling out a lighter. A spark later he drops it, his arm giving out, blood thinly streaming down his fingers to join the pool below. Puffing on the last smoke he'll ever have he glares at the Boar-thing. Smoke streams out his nose, and his left ear. 'Must have a ruptured eardrum' his brain slogs out. 'The sound from before its much louder now.' Philip looks up to see a hovercraft that is most certainly _not_ a DMC drone. As he is distracted the boar charges forward. He turns toward it at the last second and falls to the side, barely managing to dodge the rush. As he turns to look up at the Boarbatusk a wave of purple energy surrounds it. It squeals as it is picked up into the air and then slammed down into the ground. Repeatedly. After about what seems a solid minute of this it begins to dissipate. Philip struggles to look up at the hovercraft only to see it land next to him. A figure walks out, only for him to wish he had the energy to facepalm. As his consciousness fades it seems he has been rescued by a maid. "What kind of hell did I fall into? What the helllllll…"

* * *

A/N: This is the first story of it's kind as far as I know, so feel free to look up NEO Scavenger on Y outube. It is a turn based survival game based on a hex grid RNG system. As for my version of Philip Kindred in this story, he is based off of several different play-throughs worth of attempts to beat said game. He has more Skills than he would otherwise have in the Base game, or even the modded version I am currently playing with The Extended Mod. This is so he even has a chance to survive in the world of Remnant. As for the story I plan on him becoming a teacher at Beacon. I gave him Silver eyes for reason that will be delved into later on, so drop a follow/Fav if you are interested in the story and want to find out why a guy from a different version of Earth has them. You'll also note that he only has one on top of that, so the power itself will be diminished proportionately.

If you want to review with feedback, or your thoughts on this first chapter please do so. Until next post, enjoy.

Fight and Flight will have an update before March is out so stay on the lookout for my other story!


	2. A New Beacon of opportunity Pt 1

**I still don't own anything. All rights go to their respective owners.**

* * *

Dozens of Beowolves watch as the blonde woman in the blouse waves around some kind of stick. An older Beowolf looks right at the woman. It knows who she is, more than that, it has been in these woods for some years. See this particular specimen was smart enough to avoid the semi-yearly trainee rain. Thus, it was more than capable to reason. So, upon seeing what amounts to a Boarbatusk Brute tossed around like a child's toy it makes the decision to leave. All of the other Beowolves smart enough to leave do so. The younger ones, the ones that don't know better charge.

Loose paving stones rupture from below, covered in a purple energy field. If the Beowolf was in the way, well too bad. Glynda Goodwitch sighs. Odds are that Oz will make her put those back just how they were before, neurotic as he is. She motions with her riding crop and the tiles do their work. Nearly twenty Beowolves too dumb to leave get shredded by the tiles, as limbs and even torsos slough off the respective remainders of what was once an intact body.

The green-eyed woman looks around the area. No more Grimm in sight. She jogs over to the comatose body on the ground, her telekinesis pulling a med-kit from the wall of the Bullhead. No movement from the man. 'He's either unconscious or too tired to move.' Goodwitch thinks, knowing there might be another reason he isn't moving. 'No, he was standing when we got here.' Opening the kit with the same ability she grabs hold the body as well, the literal pool of drying blood beneath it not promising much chance of survival. The tens of large gashes all over the man's torso would also lead to that conclusion. The pilot sets the aircraft down and depowers the hovercraft. The pilot then runs out, grabbing at the med-kit. "You watch the Grimm Assistant Head-Mistress, I can be of more use here."

"I'm not even sure where to begin. I've never seen so much blood out of one man before." Glynda replies. The Pilot-Medic look at the body that was pulling into the passenger compartment of her craft. Under her helmet she raises her eyebrows. Reaching over to the man's neck to feel for a pulse she stops suddenly. "Eeep!" "What is it?" The Pilot points at his face. Glynda lowers her weapon and look at what has gotten the other so disturbed. A metal plate seemingly fused to the man's head. Not so innocuous, she's seen plenty of huntsman with cybernetics, though this seems more crude than Ironwood's. A glowing green eye swivels in place tracking movement. It zeros in on her own eyes. It doesn't blink but seems to dim before switching to a blue glow with a red-orange center. Fascinated the Pilot moves her hand and the eyes moves it's focus over to it.

Goodwitch breaks the silence. "Do your job Ms. Helgrind, or he might not make it. That eye moving should mean he's alive. The pilot nods, her stupor lost to duty. Goodwitch's returns to gaze returns the surrounding area. Several minutes pass.

"He's stable now. Aura readings show nothing however." Pilot Helgrind says, moving a scanning device over the bandaged and heavily scarred torso. "He either is suffering from exhaustion or he might not have it unlocked. Either way I can't tell with what we have here. I'll prep for take-off." She climbs back into the Bullhead. Goodwitch takes one last look around before doing the same. As she sits down in the seat she looks back over to the man strapped down off to the side. He's terribly pale, however that probably form blood loss. Dark reddish hair, and more scars than even Port has stories of questionable truthfulness. Most of his gear is scatted around the clearing, broken or torn and useless. 'Who are you? Where are you from?'

Any questions will have to wait until he awakes. If he awakes.

-Break-

_-Two days later, Beacon Academy, Conference room near the Infirmary-_

"I'm telling you he doesn't exist in Any records, Anywhere! The man is a ghost. A figment, a phantasm!"

Ozpin drags a hand down his face. Two days of searching through records of birth, or of missing persons and nothing. Not even the records from missing or defunct settlement attempts show anything. "And on top of that I don't even know if he's human!" Ozpin blinks. That's a new one.

"What would make you say that Peach? He doesn't appear to have any visible Fuanus traits. Are you saying he may be of a mixed birth?" The angry woman rounds on him. "Oh, so _now_ our esteemed _boss_ finally decides to chime in then?" she sneers.

"Enough! Peach do you think we haven't been doing our best to help? I can speak for all of us when I say that we don't like this mystery anymore than you do." The pink-haired woman deflates. It had been a trying experience for them all. "Now then," Ozpin begins, "What do you mean when you say that you aren't even sure that our friend down there is human?"

Peach sighs and relaxes her shoulders. Reaching around her to a satchel at her side she pulls out a manila folder. She sets it down on the table. At its head sits Ozpin, and on his left Oobleck, and Port. Over to his right Goodwitch and Peach herself. Peach opens the folder and begins passing diagrams of some sort to everyone present. "Here we see the average human or Fuanus of Remnant, barring outstanding traits." Everyone at the table looks at the document. It's a full body X-ray of some sort showing several broken ribs, a shattered pelvis and an overlay with surface damage. The overlay revealing massive lacerations over the entire body. Peach continues "This individual has suffered from a head on vehicular collision, and even with medical Dust and healing from such semblances will have a recovery time of at least two months."

Everyone nods following along. "Now, say this person was a Huntsman or Huntress. They would be fine from their aura within two weeks, with the afore mentioned treatments, maybe even five days to a week. Now this," she says passing another scan around, "this is our Mr. Who knows." Oobleck drops his thermos. Port's eyebrows pop up. Ozpin looks down at the laminated sheet before him. Despite not being fully trained medical professionals like Peach, it doesn't take much to figure out something isn't right.

The scan shows bones nearly 50% more dense, with numerous fractures in nearly All of them. Femurs, tibia, the collarbone, all the bones in his left foot. His ribcage is a fragmented mash of shards, a wonder he doesn't have ruptured lungs. But his skull… The metal plate covers the right upper half of his face yes, but it is _bolted _in place. A long furrow traces over and through the socket on the right side of his skull under the plate. The X-ray reveals wiring going into his brain from the plate and behind it, connecting the ocular device to the part of his brain that's receives light and tells you what you are seeing. A giant crack runs through the left side of his skull along the ear canal, and a dislocated jaw.

"This is disturbing. And this was from when he arrived correct?" Asks Oobleck. Peach nods, then pulls out one more sheet, before passing it around. "I have never seen someone heal this fast, barring though with a semblance that lets them do so." She looks troubled as she says, "Never mind the situation with his Aura. He has one, but it is neither unlocked nor active. It seems to be stuck between the two states causing the hyper accelerated healing but at the loss of being able to project in any capacity. And it always seems to read zero, no matter how many boosters I pump him with to try and get the levels to rise. I think he must have had it unlocked far too late in life to be able to learn how to use it properly, and that this healing is the result."

The Second X-ray shows all the hair-line fractures healed, and the ribs to be sealing themselves shut, his skull nominally healed but for the scarred bone under the plate. "It would show that he isn't human, but his genetic sequences all match the average run of the mill human. Mind that I actually have no idea how he healed so fast, or even what is going on with his aura, this is the just the least crazy idea I've managed to come up with."

Ozpin sets down the laminated sheets on the table. He raises the coffee mug to his lips but soon sets it back down. Empty. Port looks hard at the sheets while Goodwitch and Bartholomew, look to him for a response. "All we can do is wait, and hope he wakes in a mood to give us answers to our questions. However, if you have any ideas of your own feel free to speak your mind on this matter. Port?"

Port looks up from the page he was studying. "Have you asked James about this gent yet? The metal plate in the head tends to give me an Atlas vibe." Ozpin shakes his head. "He says he doesn't know anything about this. Rather he offered to have one of his experts come and help us with 'Questioning' him when he awakes." Goodwitch and Peach wince. Port grunts, then returns to looking at the file. Oobleck chimes in. "I studied some of his equipment. Rather what was left of it, given that most was damaged beyond repair. Quite a bit of it is handmade. Crude yes, however it was built with one purpose in mind. To kill. Little more or less. The rest had brand labels that also don't seem to exist. And the scraps of the cloak he wore that we recovered. It was as if a Beowolf were to exist in a living capacity and have been skinned. Such a creature, if it were to be real, would perhaps be a progenitor species for the Beowolf. It could change everything we know about the Grimm." They all ponder this for a moment. Ozpin stares wistfully into space, as even his legendary levels of caffeine consumption, on par with Bart's, seem to be faltering to keep him coherent. Oobleck pipes in once more. "Not to mention the devices he had in his pocket. I've ran cross analysis on them and they appear to be memory drives, but they are of a type I'm not familiar with. Perhaps General Ironwood would be of assistance in that regard?" There is a mumbled response from everyone present. A sudden smack sounds echos in the room as ports' head hits the table, a snoring sound emerging from under the mustache.

"What I think is that we need to get some rest. At this rate we will burn ourselves out even with Aura. Get some rest my friends. Doctor's Orders!" declares Peach. Everybody, too tired to argue with the sporadic woman, slowly staggers away from the table. Seats grind against the floor as they leave the room. The light turns off some time after they leave, as it runs on a motion timer.

No sound can be heard but the low hum of electricity in the walls. The light has a faint glow as the wire filament in the bulb let's off excess heat. Unbidden, it suddenly turns back on. If one looked closely they might have seen a faint black mist glide over the table. Had someone been in the room they would have even been able to see the folder open once more onto the X-rays of their mystery man. Even still they might have seen the X-rays fade, and bleach until nothing but a blank paper remained, the faint smell of ozone and acrid smoke lingering for several minutes. Then the bulb explodes, glass shards falling onto the table of the small conference room. Once more silence.

_-The next morning, The Infirmary-_

Flashes of light. Voices. Words, out of context it seems. Aura, Lack of Aura, The metal eye. His eyes. "Silver!"

A dull thudding in his head stirs Philip awake. His body aches. It aches everywhere. He feels… Clean. The numbness fades as he cracks open his left eye. The light seems harsh, but the strain fades as it adjusts. He tries to reach up with his left arm to rub the sleep crust from it, but a tugging at the elbow gives him pause. He tilts his head up. "A be-" He coughs, "A bed? What?" In his arm is an IV, feeding a strange lightly glowing liquid into his veins. His arms are bandaged expertly, much better than the roughshod methods he uses. A tightness on his chest tells him it too is bound and bandaged. Might even be a cast. The hell is going on here?!

Blankets slide off his body as he forces his body to sit upright. He is in a cast it seems. Philip looks around, eyes critical, nothing escaping his observational skills. 'White room, Clean, High tech. I'm alive. Means that was a rescue not an execution. Unknown faction, possible military? Multiple beds, no other patients. No staff either.' He hums a bit. It's always worked before. Sometimes to his detriment. But it still works. His voice is strained, and his throat is dry, but he manages a wheezy "Hey!" Philip swallows and licks his lips, noticing he's been shaved. He reaches up and touches his head. Shaved as well. Eh, he was going to do that eventually, sooner or later. "Hey! Anybody there? I'm awake!" Silence greets him. "Gah" He shrugs, noticing a lack of pain.

Odd. He recalls very clearly being all but dead. Oh, right. Medicine and such. Jolly well and good. He swings his legs over to the side freeing them of the warmth of the blankets. Toes wriggling, he slaps his feet onto the floor. Tiled. Nice. Very nice. The IV bag is attached to one of those wheeled towers. Very nice indeed! Grabbing hold of the steel pole he shuffles over to the foot of the bed. His head hurts still. That same stabbing pain behind his eyes. Well effectively Eye in the singular, as given the mechanical optic hasn't yet kicked on. His right arm moves up and he *thunks* the plate. It hurts but the device lets out a small *zzzzrkt* and the enhanced vision turns back on, giving Philip out of depth vision for a moment. Grimacing he smacks the plate again. "Ahh." He lets out a satisfied sigh as it re-aligns with his natural eye.

*zzzzrkt* Several sparks fall out of the eye he moves over to the foot of his bed. His memories are never clear but, if this is a real hospital, then there should be a chart in some sort of drawer looking thing.

The tile lies cold under his feet as he stumbles over. Another dam fucking gown. A wave of mild nostalgia washes over him. Philip grabs the chart and starts flicking through the pages. Huh. "Guess I almost died. Again. Bah!" He sets the clipboard back into slot and clambers back into the bed. No reason to risk anything yet. 'If these people were nice enough to fix me up, then who am I to impose.' A terrible sound emerges from below. It would seem that a lion had a half-breed child with a rabid gorilla that has a sinus infection, that's trying to beatbox out some dubstep. 'Oh. Food. Kinda might need some.' Philip looks over at the barrier thing on the beds side. A call button. "Oh. Duh."

Pressing the button, he settles back into the obscenely comfortable mattress. Images fading in and out of his minds eye tell him a nurse should be here in around two minutes tops. Now all he needs to do is wait. Shouldn't be that difficult. 'One. Two. Three. Four. Five… (You get the idea)

'Two-hundred-seventy-three… Oh hey footsteps running down the hallway. Neat.' Philip's ear twitches at the sound, echoing down through the closed door. His body tenses, but he forces it to still. 'These folks fixed me up. If they wanted to kill me, they would have.' He tells himself. It doesn't stop his danger sense from going off. Whomever is approaching means business. The door opens, and Philip waits, left eye closing and the other focusing in to magnification level 4X.

A mass of pink hair tied in a bun with two pencils sticking through enters his vision as the door opens, and two pink eyes meet his. The woman has a lab-coat on with numerous pockets full of notepads and writing utensils. A plain white shirt, and black slacks and shoes complete her rather drab outfit. However, there was one thing that drew Philips attention even more than her strange colored hair and eyes. Even her *rather impressive figure wasn't what caught it. The massive Zweihander stowed in a sheath on her back.

"So, the mystery man awakes. Do you know where you are?" Philip un-zooms the eye and opens his other. "Uh, no. But I assume you are going to tell me, right?" The woman smirks. "You are at Beacon Academy, a finishing school for Huntsmen and Huntresses." Philip stares blankly at the woman. "Uhhh. Hmm. Is that still in Michigan? And what's a Huntsman?" The woman's smile fades. "Where's Michigan? Is that somewhere in Minstrel?" Philip draws his hand down his face. "This is just like when I awoke in the blighted Cryo facility." He mumbles. "Allow me to introduce myself then. My name is Philip Kindred. Some may know me as 'The Unstoppable' or 'Cannibal's Bane'." Philip pauses as often when people meet him they have one of three reactions. Awe, Fear, or Rage. He gets none of them. Peach blinks at the titles. 'What kind of person calls themselves 'Cannibal's Bane'?' She glances down at his hands, noting that they are clenched into fists. She notes just how callused they are. How scarred the knuckles are and the density of the bone structure. Those are hands that have hurt people.

"Well, my name is Peach. I'm a professor here at Beacon. The Headmaster would like to speak with you." Philip narrows his eye. 'Headmaster then? Am I somewhere in Europe? No, no accent from this woman.' He considers his options. What other choice does he have, realistically? None. 'Her stance shows she's warry yet confident, even despite knowing my person. She thinks she could take me down without due difficulty. Arrogance or assurance?' The sound emerges once more from his gullet. Peach jumps at the sound, startled. "Could I get something to eat first? And perhaps my clothes back?"

"We can stop by the cafeteria on the way to his office, even though it's the middle of summer, some of the cooks are full time, so they should be able to prepare something for you." Philip holds his reaction from view following the this 'Peach' person. It was the start of fall before. At least he thinks it was. But the fight with the Merga-wolves... 'The day was warm, far too warm for Michigan' The pink-haired woman continues prattling on. 'No,' he corrects himself, _'Never even think that a woman is prattling, she will know. They always know!_' He stops suddenly. "Who?" A sudden pain wracks his head and he grabs at his non-existent hair, only to be lost in an odd sensation. His vision fades until all that remains is as if a mist, or a fog.

*flashback*

_A summer long ago. A small cabin in the woods. There is a pond nearby with the sounds of laughter coming from it. There are figures there, shadows only vaguely human. But then a wooden deck, with a table and a grill, the smell of hotdogs and steaks over cherrywood smoke. One of the figures in front of the grill coalesces turning into a hauntingly familiar shape. Pale white legs with sandals and socks, and kaki shorts. An apron declaring 'High Baron of the kingdom of Grill' is worn over a shirt declaring some long forgotten animated show. The figure is muscled well, but has aged into having a body that's waist line is more than years past. "_Uncle Horus?"_ The man is laughing as well, telling a tale that has long since only been funny due to the constant repetition of it. "Well my boy what can you say? Don't you know you never even THINK that a woman is prattling, she will know. They always know!" the figure laughs again, turning around. "Isn't that right Philip? After all, how else do you think I met your aunt?" The face, that face that he knows should be there isn't. It's marred with empty sockets where silver eyes should be, blood weeping from the gouges. Young Philip screams. The figure laughs, and the shape returns to blackness, a white mask where a head should be. Then a whisper sinking in the back of his mind, so faint and so cold, that it couldn't be real. 'Welcome home lost blood.'_

*End flashback*

Peach looks back at the guy calling himself 'The Unstoppable'. He looks pretty well stopped, standing still and twitching in place. "Hey! Mr. Kindred? Philip, are you okay?!" He gasps for air and bends over grabbing at his knees to steady himself. Ragged breathes sound from him. "Just, getting used outside air again. Don't mind me. Now what's this about my gear then?"

So, he was paying attention. That was still strange though. "Well most of it was all of trashed by those Beowolves you were tearing through, but we did recover some of it. And your clothes were completely destroyed and torn to shreds. However, we have some basic clothing for you to use in the meantime." "Such as? I would rather have some pants sooner than later. The breeze, while refreshing is becoming, shall we say, nippy."

Peach looks back over at him, garbed with only a hospital-type gown. "Oh. Yes. Let's take care of that first. Whoops." She shrugs apologetically as if to say, 'Well what can you do?'

A trip over to one of what would appear to be a uniform surplus store-room later, and Philip is now garbed in plain brown slacks and a white button up shirt, with black loafers. The two resume their trip to the cafeteria. "So why did you shave my head?" Peach shrugs. "You had lice." Philip rubs his hand across his scalp, feeling some scars and more to the point, many little irritated spots. He grunts, "Thanks then."

Arriving at the cafeteria Philip stares in awe. "Is… is that a coffee maker?! I've not had real coffee in nearly a year!" he rushes over to the machine and grabs the glass pot right out of it. Ignoring the temperature that would burn the hands and mouth of a lesser man he starts drinking it right from the pot. Peach can't help look dumbstruck as the coffee slowly drains out of the pot until its gone. "That, was good. So where might the food be then?" Peach points over to the counter where two mildly disturbed cooks also stare. Marching over Philip looks over the options available. He grins as he lingers over the meat section and his nostrils flare at the wonderous scents of food that has been seasoned!

_-30 minutes later, a table nearby-_

Philip pats his stomach as he sighs in contentment. "My compliments to the chefs, for there prompt and effective service." Both the cooks look upon the table in horror and some level of awe, as does Peach. They had little choice but to keep bringing out food. Ozpins orders as it were, were actively causing a hit to the budget even before the year started. So in other words, business as usual. Upon the table lies the picked-clean bones of two ENTIRE roast chickens. Philip had eaten almost three heads of lettuce worth of side salad, and almost a pound and a half of cheese! Not withstanding the four loaves of bread to top it all off. "I've not been able to eat my fill in nearly half a year!"

"Small wonder why." One chef mutters. The both of them retreat back to the larder so as to recoup the losses committed to the stores. "I think he might be crazy." "I think you may be right." "Whatever, he was polite at least, haven't had a student like that in nearly a decade at least."

Philip dusts off his shirt, shaking loose nonexistent crumbs. "I've been clothed and fed. You said the 'Headmaster' wished to speak with me? Well then lead on as I am even more so in your debt." Peach just shakes her head at the increasingly odd man. "This way Mr. Kindred."

'The more off kilter I can keep them, the better the chances they underestimate me. If they think me a mad sociopath, mind I may be, the better for it.' The remainder of the walk is silent except for the steps of Peaches shoes, Philips own steps as quiet as a breathy whisper. They traverse through a entry way and arrive at an elevator. "Ozpin will be up at the top floor in his office. Good luck I guess? I don't know what to say here. This entire situation is just all kinds of weird to be truthful."

Philip lets out a relieved laugh. "Yeah. It's quite the odd one. I mean here I am thinking that I was going to die and behold. I am healed, fed, re-clothed and now I have to talk to the head of a school. Feels like… first grade? What do I know anyway? Amnesia for nearly two plus years now, and all I've remembered was my bleeding name!" and with that he entered the elevator leaving a dumbstruck Peach in his wake.

The elevator is drab, plain and has boring music and the ride up is without any significant events. What could possibly happen in an elevator, after all? The current answer is nothing much. And as such once the trip up is over, lasting around no fewer than 80 seconds and no longer than 110 seconds. Emerging from the elevator Philip looks around the office of this 'Ozpin'. The layout is simple, with a desk and a high-backed chair. With no other furniture or even decorations to distract the eye, the fact some kind of holo-viewer turns off the moment the elevator opens. Add to that the fact the entire location has the theme of a mad clock maker doesn't help the image here very much. Even the floor seems to revolve around the idea of the twelve hours on the clock's face. 'Steampunk. Wait what's steampunk? Gah, later.'

And standing at the side of that desk is Ozpin. 'Taller than I expected.' "Ah, our mystery guest has awoken, and from the reports I've received already from the kitchens, is making himself at home. You've even beaten Ports' record for cheese." He lets out a small laugh. Grey haired and garbed in a black and green themed suit, he holds a mug in one hand and several sheets of laminated paper in the other. They heavily faded almost. Odd. "May I offer you some coffee? What we have down in the cafeteria is," he shudders, "rather average compared to my private stock." He moves in front of the desk, of which Philip notices seems to be shaped like a boomerang. 'Or a bad mustache' "As I'm sure Peach informed you, I am Ozpin, Headmaster of Beacon academy of Huntsmen and Huntresses. I suspect that an amnesiac would have many questions regardless. However, I believe your may just be more pointed than not. Am I correct?"

His one eye narrowing Philip nods. "I assume you had some means of contact I did not see?" His suspicions now peaked Philip cycles his vision modes. Night vision, not here. Thermal? Nope nothing, bar a bird outside on the ledge. How about the EM? It's new but Philip can see so many uses with that handy little mode. Ah. Cameras. Lots of cameras. Ozpin walks over to him a mug filled with steaming coffee. "No, now I see those cameras. Hidden in the curvature of the shadows. Good spots." He takes the mug and brings it up to his lips. Ozpin has a very good poker face it seems. He didn't react at all to the revelation that Philip could see the cameras. Turning away from him Philip begins pacing across the room. His instincts are screaming that this man is an absolute monster. 'Never would have guessed from the getup and demeanor. Ah, but that must be the point.' Ozpin doesn't say anything. He just watches. "What do you want from me? And don't say that the food, medicine and clothes were charity. I'm not naive. A sociopath? Maybe, but a fool? I would hope not."

"Right to the point with you then? I can appreciate that level of bluntness." Ozpin begins. "We can start with who you are and, where you are from." Philip grimaces. "You already know my name, but as for where I'm from…" He shrugs. "I think somewhere in Michigan. Full disclosure here?" he asks. Ozpin nods. "That would be best. I hope that you don't prove yourself an enemy." 'To who? A school teacher? Or are you more? Doesn't matter.'

Philip sighs. "To understand where and why and who, how and all of the above I need to go back to the beginning. The Gyges Cryogenics Facility." He chuckles. "Good thing that it's scarcely even past noon. This tale takes a while. To begin it all, I woke up."

And so, over the course of the entire day Philip tells this Ozpin character everything he can about Michigan, and to some degree Earth in general. He asks about Philip himself, his skills, how he fights. About his amnesia and how on very rare occasion he gets glimpses of something that may be memories. Who and what he has fought and why. Has he ever killed? Philips' mirthless laugh at that question startles Ozpin. "Have I? The better question is how many, and of what. And before you ask I'll let you know. People? It's in the triple digits." Ozpins face darkens, and a sense of absolute death descends upon Philip. "Mark it though, it was either in defense of myself or others. Or they were cannibals. I made _**Exceptions**_, for cannibals." The mood lifts but Philip notices that Ozpins grip on his cane seems to have tightened. Despite being rather obviously perturbed, Ozpin still continues his stream of questions.

About the Dogmen, the _fucking_ Melonheads, the DMC. He seems particularly interested about the Merga Wraith. "It sounds like you may have encountered a very old, nigh ancient Geist. They are a very hard Grimm to kill. But why call it that? What does Merga mean?" Philip shrugs. "I've been told it means 'Death' in a different language. Not sure what one though." Ozpin nods once more, the action having been common it the dialogue between the two men. "Your combat skills seem to be quite impressive Mr. Kindred." Ozpin states. Philip waves a hand at the address. "Just call me Phil. But enough from me. What is this place, really? What is a 'Huntsman'? Where am I? I know it's not in America. And I'm beginning to expect I might be in Kansas anymore. Mind the expression, but what is the name of the planet I'm on?"

"It is Remnant, of course" And with that Philip stops his pacing. "Ah. I suppose that makes this a bit more straight forward. I fell through a hole in reality." He begins chuckling madly. "Because of course _I_ would fall through the chasm between dimensions!" The chuckling turns to a hysterical cackle. Tears begin to leak from his remaining biological eye as sparks fly out from the cybernetic augment. "Of all the thrice cursed souls that yet burden the mortal coil mine would be the one that gets played with by cosmic forces yet unseen." His shoulder shake as he draws in on himself.

"Mr. Kindred… Phil!" Ozpin shouts. Philip whirls around fists clenched, veins popping from his forehead. "What?!" He seethes out, the loaned shirt now straining at its seams. A wispy field of energy radiating from his body, the silver of his eye faintly glowing.

"I did not picture you the type to break done at so small a thing. From what you have told me, every part of this world is better than your own. Yes, we have our own problems, but I implore you to give our world a chance. You may yet be surprised." Philip visibly struggles with himself, hands clenching and unclenching, his jaw thrust forward. He takes a deep breath, and then as sudden as it appeared the panic attack ends.

"I must apologize, it seems my composure was… frayed? No, I almost snapped right there. Thank you, Ozpin. Now, I believe you were about to regale with the mythos of this fine new world that I find my-self in?"

Ozpin chuckles. "Oh, I don't think I could tell you that. But I'd be glad to inform you on current events. Or rather I would if I didn't have paper work to file through. I do run a school Mr. Kindred ah, Phil. But I can give you access to our library here. That should be more than sufficient to get you informed then, yes?"

'A library? One that is still intact, and ransacked, or just destroyed?' Philip nods, his episode all but forgotten to him. Because for Philip such an incident is par for the course. "Thank you for the opportunity. I would mean to reimburse you, but what with my currency most likely void, how might I go about that?"

Ozpin pauses. "I'm sure I'll find something for you to do. The grounds are vast here, perhaps with your proclaimed skills with Botany, I could make you a grounds keeper. Or maybe…" Philip shakes his head at the older man. But a real, intact library? This is a dream!

As the doors close on the elevator Ozpin drops the act. A flash of magic and the doors to the balcony open. Without even turning around he can feel the grin on his face. "What is your impression of this one Qrow?" "He was serious when he said those numbers Ozpin. I don't even think the tribes kill count could add up to this guys."

Ozpin raises an eyebrow at that, passing the drunkard a mug. "And what gives you that impression? The scars, the killer intent that radiates off him? Or maybe that we have footage of it?" He presses a button on his desk pulling the frozen video from before. "Let's watch this again for emphasis why don't we?"

"Hey," Qrow shrugs, "I haven't seen it yet anyway. But I don't believe that this guy could kill a Beowolf barehanded, no. That's bullshit. He doesn't have an aura!" Exasperated Ozpin sighs. "He has one Qrow, that much is obvious. We even have footage of when it unlocked."

"Wait really? I thought we only had the security footage from the forest." "Incorrect. We had a breakthrough with some of Mr. Kindreds' gear last night. The memory drives that he'd had were found to be physical drives rather than digital ones. Most of us here were and still are, rather tired so if you wouldn't mind getting over here." Strolling over he looks at the video. "Oh. Oh dam."

_The date and time-stamp in the corner of the film is pointless and irrelevant to the two men watching. However, what is relevant is the glowing tube out of six. One of them, at random the one marked 02 is broken, dried fluids red in color coating the shattered glass. The one direct across is radiating with a grey and silver gradient of light. Moments later the pod hisses and releases, a pale figure with red hair and lacking any other clothes but a medical gown. The man grabs at his face, lean, muscle-corded arms lacking any scars clutching the sides of the pod. 'Wha? Where am I?' A voice sounds out. Then a sound comes from the doorway. The man groggily gets into a stance, the camera revealing his eyes widening and his jaw setting. The stance is loose yet very linear, some might say a mix of American wrestling, general pugilism, and some basic martial arts. A looming figure appears in the door, a large clawed hand curling around the frame, talons scraping against the metal. What appears to be a hairy Beowolf lacking any bone plating and it's brown hued rather than pitch black. It bursts into the room a sickening howl of primal terror emerging from its' maw. The man stands there either unfazed or too groggy for it to register. The beast looks at his stature, and his stance and seems to pause. Then the man lunges forward, a flying knee strike hitting the beast right in the snout. He pulls his arms back and balls his fists together, a hammer blow rattling the brain-case of the creature. Two dark grey eyes seem to loom in the camera, as the man grabs the beasts head in one hand. He slams the skull into the door frame repeatedly, until the whining sound gurgles out it's last. He stands up foot on its' back and lets out a bellow of victory, as blood drips from his hands, and the thin, medical gown he wears. _

Qrow turns and looks at the door to the elevator. "We sure that was the same guy? I mean… wow." Ozpin nods with the sentiment. "Have you seen his performance in the emerald forest? It's even more, lethal." Qrow shakes his head. "Nah, not yet. I'd only just gotten here when scarred and brooding decided to show up."

The two men watch the camera recording of Philips battle with the local Beowolf numbers. "Hey Oz?" "Yes Qrow? Any more insight to add?" Qrow pulls out his flask and downs a gulp. Wiping his face off with his sleeve, he points to the paused image on the screen. "I think he might need his fix. Would explain the moodiness." Ozpin looks at the screen once more. Hanging from Mr. Kindreds' lips is a cigarette, lit and burning away.

* * *

A/N: Well that was chapter two folks! I hope your all enjoying what I've put together so far. I have so many plans and ideas for this story, and plenty of surprises as well. No idea on update schedules as usual, but I'm between two jobs right now (quit the old one) and D&D takes up like tow days out of my week. No promises on that but the chapters will be out when they are.

And now to respond to the reviews!

Sothalothgothmothphothinthoth- Glad to hear you like the story! And I'm glad you like the concept.

poaling12- Thanks for the feedback! And hey if we get enough of these stores on the site maybe they'll give NEO Scavenger a selection page!

Guest- No idea if you were just visiting the story or not, but all connections between the NEO scavenger world and Remnant will be explained in time, including Philips' Silver eyes.

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And without further ado until next time folks! If you like the story, consider dropping a follow or a favorite, and be sure to give me some feedback! Drop a review if you're so inclined, and be sure to enjoy a coffee while you read!


	3. A New Beacon of opportunity Pt 2

**I own nothing. Big surprise, all rights to the respective owners you all know the drill.**

* * *

The apartment building is relatively intact, that fact paramount given the detritus and ruination surrounding the area. Whatever name this town was once known by is long forgotten to time. That and the apocalypse. Double glass doors stand a silent lonely vigil, over what was at one time a home for dozens of souls. Now however, it is little more than a place to find anything remotely of worth.

The hallways are quiet, and it would seem that he is alone. Perfect. Now to see if this place still has running water. Or maybe even electricity. Philip snorts. That'd be the day. Next thing you know he'd even find some toilet paper too. The front service desk is as good as any place to start. Rummaging through the drawers Philip finds nothing. The desk has already been picked clean long ago. "Gah. Whatever. This whole building has to have something of worth right?" Pushing away from the desk Philip shivers. It had started raining about an hour ago and his doubled-up T-shirts had been soaked through after only 20 minutes. The Dogman cloak was all fine and good, but it only covered one side at a time.

The first floor was almost entirely a bust, all the apartments having little of use. 108 had had a decent selection of shirts, but they were all double XL. Way too big. The stairs up to the next floor were creaky, and dry rotted. Why was Philip taking the stairs? Turns out that while this place did have electricity, the elevator was busted and stuck up on the fourth floor. The boards creak and groan under his weight, but they hold on the way up to the next floor. The first room on the right-hand side didn't have a door. Didn't have a wall either. In fact, the entire the room seemed to have been demolished with a prybar. That same prybar is embedded into the rotted corpse pinned to the wall on the opposite side. "Oh, hell." Philip gags, looking at the body. It's just a fucking KID!

Entering the room, he looks around, searching for any sort of answers. Approaching the body, he crosses around a couch. Slumped up against it is another body, this one far larger than the eight-year-old looking one pinned to the Freaking WALL! Philip takes a breath, ignoring the rank air. 'Calm. I need to calm myself. Figure it all out, then channel it into something productive.' The other body was a man and judging from the gaping wreckage that was once a ribcage he got blasted with a shotgun. Philip leans down checking the pockets on the corpse's pants. Decent blue jeans, all considered. But, there is a prize to be had within. In the back-left pocket is a small rectangular package, sealed and covered in plastic. An entire pack of cigarettes. With proper rationing this could last an entire week. But now? Pulling a lighter from one of his own pockets Philip fumbles open the package, pulling one thin tube out and setting it between his lips. The small sparks manage to barely catch aflame the cigarette. "Outa fluid. Shit. This always happens! Either I find more cigarettes and or matches and a lighter, but God forbid that I have both at the same time!" He sighs, exhaling a puff of smoke, the nicotine doing much to settle his nerves. He glances at the body pinned to the wall once more.

Cold rage burns inside his soul at the sight. He stumbles over to the body, the injury to his leg acting up again. 'Must have been more than a bruise. Minor fracture? Hell if I know. Will need to make a splint. Later.' Wrenching the metal bar from the wall causes the body to fall as well. As it slumps to the floor Philip catches a sight of green on the floor. His hand closes on a spent shell. 12 Gauge, bird shot. What a way to go. Scanning over the floor he finds three more empty shells. 'No other bodies. Where were his parents I wonder? Or perhaps that was once? The shotgun is missing either way.' He glances over at the other body maggots crawling in the hollow that was once a torso. 'Either way, the kid got one of them.' Philip looks at the prybar in his hands. As much as he wants to just… just tear this thing in half he hesitates. He lets out another puff of smoke, the cigarette about half gone. The dam thing is in pretty good shape. Peeling off his back pack he rummages around inside it. Pulling out a knotted rope woven from string and braided together for strength, he wraps it around the bar, securing it in place.

No matter how tainted it might be, to refuse gear of this caliber would be foolish. Putting the bandoliered apparatus through a belt loop he hangs it at his side, before setting the bag back on his back. A flash of pain, and a wince that seems to not be there follows. He reaches up to touch the cloth covering his… what was once his right eye. Now it was just ruined socket, covered with nothing but pain, and a scar that drags into his scalp. It seemed worse now than before. Almost as if, as if it were sparking? But why would it be doing that? What?

*POP*

Philip jolts awake. The library, Beacon, Ozpin. Remnant, Aura, the Fuanus, the Grimm, and Dust. Random-ass abilities that can break all known laws of physics being seen as normal. He pulls his face from the keyboard that he had fallen asleep on. He rubs his hand over the side of his face feeling the indentations from the keys. It was so much to take in. He shakes his head, trying to stir the sleep out. He tries to wipe the drool from his face, but his hand doesn't seem to want to respond very well. The shakes are back. 'Need a smoke. Where did they put my gear anyway? I know I had at least a dozen or so left.' He pushed himself away from the terminal, the piles of books around him teetering precariously with many lying opened and cross referenced with the others.

So many things that he had researched, and how long has that been? He glances over at one of the clocks on the walls. It reads 5 in the afternoon so that would make this, what 18 hours? And yet he's scarcely even scratched the surface of this world's knowledge. But that needs to be waylaid for now. Food is once again required. Easy access to such will be taken advantage of maliciously. Now where was that cafeteria located again? He takes a few steps over to the side, and glances around. Nobody seems to have even tried to come near him during his restless slumber. Good.

Disarming the noise traps around him he sighs. Old habits die hard, and it is always better to be safe than sorry. He touches the scar that runs under the metal plate affixed to his skull. That lesson came at a cost. He looks at the stacks of books so very primed to tip and fall at the slightest touch. Shaking his head, he looks at the covers at he begins putting them back on the shelves. '_Aura Manipulation for Dummies' 'Your Semblance and You!' 'Dust! What is it really?' 'Dust and how it changed the World' _All so very full of information, yet little of it understood. A shame, but further study could yet bring about new revelations. 'At least I hope it does.' Philip thinks. 'None of this helps me if I am incapable of figuring it out.' With the last of the books placed upon shelves that he had gone through Philip leaves the Library.

Wandering the empty halls of Beacon Philip thinks on what it is he means to do. The wilderness seems a fair idea, after more research into the capabilities of the Grimm. It's not like that giant pig thing, er, Boarbatusk was that common a foe, was it? In either case the fact that he can do research is _not_ going to be squandered. Half of any given fight is determined by who has the best preparations. Chance has a factor, and skill as well, not to mention luck, but one's gear and knowledge of the opponent can't be ignored.

And yet without proper kit an undertaking such as braving the wilds of Remnant like that would be suicide. Then again that's people said about the Allegan Fairgrounds. "Fucking Melonheads…" A spear made of broken glass and tied to a maple shaft with a torn off shirt sleeve worked then, but it might not suffice to kill Grimm any bigger than a Beowolf. His machete did fine, but that was an actual weapon he bought from the junk market outside the DMC gates. Maybe the headmaster would let him buy a weapon? 'He does run the school though. Maybe there is a forge here?' A low rumble makes the walls shake and small bits of dust (not to be confused with Dust) fall from the rafters above. 'But food first.'

* * *

After a meal of rather ludicrous proportions, Philip retraces his steps to Ozpin's office. The elevator is in the same place as before. He notices a call button opposite a voice thing. 'Never could remember what those bloody thing were called.' Pressing the button, he waits for a response.

"Yes? Mr. Kindred? Did you have more questions?" "Nah, just wanted to ask where all my stuff was put. I forgot about it before, that tends to happen sometimes, but where can I find my kit?" The loud static hides the thoughts of the mysterious man that lives in a tower. "You will find most of your gear didn't survive the fight with the Grimm, but all that we recovered is in the armory. I'll page Peter Port, one of the professors here, to show you to it. I'll also have him get you a scroll. If you are going to be here for a while the least that I can do to assist you is to supply you with one. And feel free to help yourself to some of simpler gear if you so choose, lest you be under equipped."

'More than I expected' Philip thinks. He presses the button again, "Thanks. I aim to find a way to repay you yet Headmaster. You've done more for me in the past, (what three days?) than anyone that I ever met out in the wastes I once called home." Turing away from the intercom, 'Oh yeah, it's called an intercom!' He moves over and eases into one of the chairs adjacent to the wall. 'one, two, three, four, five, six…'

'three-hundred-forty-six, three-hundred-forty-seven, and there he is. Oh, this man is fat.' Philip looks at who could only be this Port (Is that a running joke or is that the man's name? Never mind he'd never be in a running joke. The joke would be him running.) approaches. Grey hair parted down the middle, styled in a wave-like shape, and a giant mustache which hides his mouth. A dark burgundy suit with golden buttons and stitching sits atop his rotund frame. "What ho! You must be Philip. Pleased to meet you, young man." Port reaches out a hand to shake. Philip puts forth his own, noting the callouses on the older man's hands. "I'm think I'm 30 I'll have you know. So not that young, you geezer." Ports raises an eyebrow. "Banter already? Ah but you are a sharp one. Follow me then."

The large man sets off at fair speed, despite not seeming to do more than walk. "I say, you put up quite the fight against the Grimm before we pulled you out of the flames, so to speak. You are self-taught?" Philip shrugs. "More or less. Where I come from you either learned fast or died the same." Port shivers. "Yes, Ozpin forwarded to us a summarization of your," Here he puts up some air-quotes, disbelieving the tale. "adventures shall we call them." He waggles one eyebrow at Philip. "I'll get the truth out of you one day."

Philip glares at him. "I told nothing but the truth. If you choose to disbelieve me then may you proceed in ignorance!" he spits. Port backs up. "I was jesting. My word. I meant no offense Philip." Philip grunts.

"We are here anyway." Port motions to a large set of double doors, set in a reinforced frame. He pulls a small device from his pocket and hands it over to Philip. "This is a scroll. They are used for practically everything. They are a communication device, they can read your Aura levels, or at least the huntsman grade ones can. They can also…" Port pauses suddenly. Philip has the device open and is rapidly skimming over its functions. A small smile might have been seen, but that would be a lie. Philip looks up from the device. "Oh. Do continue." Port sputters, "Buh, what? How are you doing that? You've never even seen such a device before. Have you?" Philips' hands are moving of their own accord, the number of files and the software of the device being optimized before his eyes. Philip shrugs. "I have a way with computers and Hacking. Given my memory loss I could have been a hacker, or an IT specialist with a military or something. No idea."

"Oh. Well that is interesting. Seems you know more than me anyway." Philip shrugs again and slides the modified device over the door panel. With a muted hiss the doors part. Philip enters and stops. Port stares wondering just how he managed to lock his Bio-Metrics into the device and gain security clearance so quickly, but then chuckles. A small idea is forming in the back of his head, one that could be just what is needed. He boasts, striding into the room. "Ah yes. I remember the first time that I entered Beacons armory. Mind that was many years ago, and in fact that reminds me of a story from that time. Why it was mild day, but underneath the bland start such strange things were to happen."

Philip ignores the droning sound of the old man. It's only making the withdrawal headaches worse. Whatever starts with three pounds of table salt, half a gallon of liquid nitrogen and a fur coat that had no sleeves and ends with a dead Grimm shaped as a pool floatie sounds too far-fetched to even be considered as humor.

He looks at the walls laden with weapons, mundane and exotic, both melee and ranged, firearms and even explosives. Warhammers, massive axes, and swords sit in racks, both hilt and haft ready to be grabbed at a moments notice. Tables litter the area, half constructed devices and mecha-shift weapons placed haphazardly all over. Crates are stacked high with munitions of all calibers and even some unfamiliar to Philip. Large reinforced glass cases hold Dust of all colors and grades. It was just… so much! And then, lying in a small pile near the door, is a battered .38 revolver with no ammo, a scuffed leathern sling, and a wickedly sharp, if plain, machete. And a pile of broken spears. And some bent scrap metal knives. Looking over the rest of the clutter reveals a stack of cans filled with gone off berries. No thumb drives though. And a…

"I don't even remember having a water tester." Philip says pointing at the device before pulling it from the tidy pile. He motions with the device trying to get Port attention, but he seems too caught up in his story to even notice that someone is trying to speak with him. He looks through the pile searching for that little carboard box of relief, but alas. It would seem that they didn't survive the brawl. 'Or maybe this place has a no tobacco policy? It is a school. Shit!' "… and then I strode forth, clad in only my undergarments and armed with little more than a toothbrush, and the scissors from my mustache grooming kit, although at the time it was not nearly as magnificent, and yet there I was bravely facing the…"

Philips cybernetic eye cycles through its many vision modes as he takes in a deep breath, repressing the urge to either pummel the windbag or slump down to the ground and pass out. "And people have said that I have a tendency to lose touch with reality." He grumbles. At this point both seemed just as likely as the other as a means of getting Port to shut up. Philip searches around the room spying a section of holsters and sheathes. Coincidently located next to another door. Grabbing a few belts and adjusting them to his frame he glances at the name plate on the door. -**ARMOR-** A pinched grin stretches across his face as he palms his scroll against the reader, entering the room.

* * *

-Several minutes later-

Philip emerges from the room, a pleased look upon his face. The plain attire he had on has been supplemented by a new tactical vest, gloves and a sturdy ballistic helmet. Attaching the sheathes and holsters from before he nods satisfied with himself. "This ought to work just fine."

He looks over at Port who is still talking, even with no one there. "Hey, Peter!" Walking up to the man he snaps his fingers. "And then after I had saved the villages mayor, both her and her identical twin, I…" Port breaks from his story. He coughs. "Ahh, well I see that you have found your gear then." Port looks him up and down. "And even made yourself use of some old surplus we keep in the back rooms." Port raises an eyebrow so bushy it could put a caterpillar to shame. "However, that equipment isn't rated for use against the Grimm." Port strokes his mustache. "That is some old Vale Police gear that was outmoded a few years back."

Philip shrugs, adjusting a strap on the shoulder. "It was in my size. Besides it's light, sturdy, and doesn't impede my movement." He then grins. "Plus, pockets are always useful. A knife here, some ammo there, and even a spot for a snack or two." Ports chuckles mildly. "And what of your weaponry? Are you content with so little? The footage from before…" Philip shakes his head. "Nah. If I need anything else I'll just make it. At least this time it won't be made of scrap. You have a forge room somewhere around here, right?"

The cybernetic eye whirs, the focus switching over to the door to the armory. The plain off-white glow, turning a toxic green, then a cool, muted purple hue. His thermal vision shows a human shape on the other side of the door. He points to it drawing Port's attention. Port turns to look just as the door opens, a scruffy looking man in a white coat looking shirt, the sleeves rolled up to just before his elbows. A ragged red cape hangs from his shoulders, the dark hue matching his eyes. A thick blade rests across the back of his waist, a reverse grip draw perhaps? He doesn't look to have shaven in a few days. Philip looks at the man, sensing loss, and pain in his slouched stance. 'And his eyes.' Philip stares him down, searching for a weakness. 'He knows my paranoia.' A smell of cheap liquor permeates the air surrounding him.

"Hey pal, I don't swing that way." The man blurts out, Philips stare unnerving him. "Names Qrow." He reaches out a hand. Philip grabs hold and notes the calluses on the inside of his fingers, and on the tops of his knuckles. "Does he work here too?" He asks, glancing sidelong at Port. "Nah, I work at Signal."

Port stirs from his silence. "Ah Mr. Branwen! Good to see you again, though it seems that you are catching up to me then, hmmm?" he chuckles, pointing at his silver-grey hair. Qrow reaches up touching the tops of his short yet ragged side burns, the few grey hairs showing this man has been around a while. "Like I'll live that long. I swear the only reason your alive Petey boy, is because your stories make the Grimm kill themselves from embarrassment and boredom. It's a wonder none your students have done the same." Philip sighs. This seems to be the start of a series of banter. Time to just fade into the background. People did say he could be Elusive when he wanted to be. So very many people. They didn't say much after though. He was elusive for a purpose.

The two go back and forth with the banter for around three. Whole. Minutes. "Well it was nice catching up with you Peter, but Oz asked me to take Ol' Phil here into the city proper." Port nods. Turing around he tries to grab hold of Philips shoulder. With Philip no longer being there he whiffs the air and stumbles. "What?" Philip laughs at the near fall. The two seasoned Huntsman turn around to face the sound of the laughter only to see a rack of swords hanging on the wall.

Philip taps Qrow on the shoulder. "We going or what? Also, why?" Qrow jumps forward, hand reaching for his sword. "Dust man. How did you do that?" Philip shrugs. "I just moved. If you can't follow that's not my problem. Now why are we going to Vale?"

Qrow glares at him, "Hold on now. You don't just get to do something like that and pull out a lame-ass excuse like that. How the hell did you manage that?" Philip sighs. He motions with his hand over to a corner of the room, where there is a shadow behind a shelf of unfilled dust containers. "See that shadow over there?" Qrow nods, as does Port, both men intrigued as to what might happen. Philip grunts. "Now watch me. I'm going to move over there, and you won't see a dam thing. No matter how much you or I want to." Qrow scoffs as Port furrows his brow, the action making the beast seem alive.

Qrow watches Philip as he takes a step. Then another, and another after that. Then Philip is gone. "What the fuck?" Port, however was watching the shadow. At first nothing, but then the dim light darkens, twisting into wisps of what could almost be called smoke, then coalescing into a human shape. "Tada." Announces Philip, emerging from the shadow, wisps of smoke seeming to peel from his visible skin, before dissipating. Port lets out a hearty laugh, clapping his hands. "Well bravo then Mr. Kindred. It would seem you have found your semblance. Perhaps some type of short-range teleportation? Hmmm?"

Philip shakes his head. "Nah." He point to his cybernetic eye and the visible metal around it. "I did a little bit of research on Aura. Turns out what this little miracle is made of doesn't conduct Aura. If that was a semblance, well then let's just say it wouldn't be sparks streaming from the hole in my skull." He reaches up and taps the optic on the lens. "You would need a mop, and a bucket for blood."

Qrow and Port grimace. "Well if your done with that, Ozzie seems to think that I would be the best person to show you around, help you figure Lien out." Philip nods. 'Seems fair. Still though…' "What's the catch?" Qrow grins. "You'll find out."

Qrow leaves the room, Philip following grumbling under his breath. Port stands alone left alone in the armory, the quiet drone of the lights barely registering in his ears. "That wasn't a semblance? Then how? What?" He thinks back to when he first saw Philip on the cameras fighting the Grimm alone. Before Glynda got there, he did something. A wave of energy had seemed to explode around him, and he began to attack more ruthlessly than before. "Why I dare say the Grimm even began to show caution. But if the shadow jump wasn't his semblance was that? Or perhaps something else?" He strokes his chin humming.

The thing that many seem to forget about Peter Port, is that he can be serious. Rather that he is serious most of the time, it just doesn't show through the outright jovial demeanor. And yet while not a front, it more than allows him to analyze people through the outright asinine tales he regales them with, many of which are mostly true. A little embellishment never hurt anyone. "What then are your powers, Mr. Kindred? What sway will you hold in the times to come?"

Port thinks back to what Peach said about Philip, or Phil as he seems to prefer. "His Aura is there and yet not…" Port shrugs. "Oh well. Not like anyone ever listens to old Peter Port anyway." He laughs. Just the way he likes it. What better way to confuse your enemies! But he must tell the headmaster at once! Forget about the crazy abilities! "I can finally get out of that dam computer room! No more, 'Well how do I fix this' or 'Make sure that the firewalls are up to standard'. No more 'Port, don't forget to update the system.' I can finally go back to my classroom full time!" He exclaims. "Beacon has found it's new head of Technology!"

* * *

_Elsewhere_

The walk over to the Bullhead landing pads is an awkward silence. To Qrow anyway. "So…" He starts. Philips' right eye swivels with a dull whir, the orb coming to rest on Qrow, while the left one stays looking ahead. "Yeah?" Qrow shudders. He's seen some crazy things, even pushes the buttons on Ironwood for shits and giggles, but the Cybernetics on this guy are almost alien in their crudity. "Where you from? Can't say I recognize that accent of yours. And I've been everywhere." Philip grunts. "Wish I knew. Amnesia and whatnot."

Qrow scowls. "Listen pal that might work on Ozpin, but I'm not so easy to convince." Philip turns to look at him entirely. Both men stop. They are outside now, near the main entryway of the campus. Dozens of pillars dot the scape, with benches and trees accenting the paths. Lampposts are set every dozen feet or so ensuing plenty of light in the night hours.

Philip eyes him. That sense is going off again. Danger exudes from the man before him, a sort of pressure in the air. 'He's slouched. Confidence or arrogance? No, he can beat me.' "And what would you rather hear? A lie? One that might make logical sense? Not one bit of this world makes any sense to me. Super shields that are powered by the soul? Near mystic powers that are unlocked from having your soul released? Beast-Folk?! Those Merga demons in the guise of animals?" Philip tenses up. "This place isn't my home. It is wonderous and somehow worse!"

Qrow laughs. "Oh, listen to me. Wah, wah, wah. I think I'm some badass because I fought off a bunch of Grimm. You're a Brothers dammed psychopath! Hundreds of people, and you just drop that statement like it's some badge of honor! I don't care what you say buddy, somebody needs to put you in the ground."

"You think I don't know I'm screwed up in the head?!" Philip roars. "You haven't seen the hell I woke up to every single day of almost two years! Never knowing when the next time I get food is. I went Weeks! WEEKS without anything more than berries and mushrooms, half the time which were poisonous! Then you throw in the Bandits, the Slavers! The FUCKIN **CANNIBALS!**" Energy seems to radiate from Philip, intangible without any clear color, the air around him distorting. "And then a blight assed Drunk going through his mid-life crisis feels the need to point this out to me? That's rich. I thought I saw a kindred-" He sneers at the link in his name to the bastard before him. "A kindred soul when I looked upon you. One who might know my pain."

"Your pain? I've lost friends and people I thought family to freaks like you. Yeah, I've had to kill, but I never liked it!" Philip trembles, rage seething through his body. "You think I liked it?" he whispers. "I never liked it, no I didn't." His voice rises in volume, until it thunders across the courtyard. "I STILL SEE THE FACES! Every time I sleep, I do not rest. I am haunted by the wraiths of those who've I've slain and the memories of that which never were!"

"I see them, and I feel nothing! A blank, void of compassion that I knew I once had in excess. They all blur into a mass of rage and fear, whose it is being lost upon me. Is it mine or theirs? Who weeps? Me or them?!" He draws his machete. The blade glistens in the sun, the edge sharp as ever. "I won't be judged by you." His body seems to swell ever so slightly, muscles growing taunt and bulging under his clothes, veins protruding from his forehead.

Play 'Right Left Wrong by Three days Grace'

"I won't be judged by ANYONE!"

He steps back, watching Qrow with both eyes. His stance is relaxed. Far too relaxed. "I told Ozpin you were gonna be a problem. I told him you would snap." He reaches back and draws his blade. Philip watches as it expands, the short blade lengthening to one near four feet long. He stands knees bent, posture stooped. Then he lunges. Philips left eye widens instinctively at the absolute speed. But he's still ready to Parry, with his other eye processing faster than the biological one can. While this causes increased fatigue and a headache after the adrenaline wears off it is well worth it in the middle of a fight.

His left arm blurs and bashes the side of the blade off target missing his heart, and instead piercing through the Kevlar layers on his shoulder. Qrows' eyes widen in shock only in time for a headbutt to the face. With a helmet. *CRACK* Aura flaring, he jumps back, little harm done, but still surprised. He smirks. "Well this just got interesting."

Philip rushes him energy wisps bleeding from his charge. Qrow sidesteps the tackle and elbows Philip in the middle of his back. He hits the ground, the tile breaking from the force, spit flying from his mouth. Qrow shunts back, making some distance. Groaning Philip braces his arms, pushing himself off the ground. "Dam it." he chokes out. His left hand punches the ground, tiny cracks appearing in the stone. That fucking hurt. He stands up lopsided. He looks over noticing his left arm is dislocated. 'Must have happened at impact.' Qrow watches as he grunts and slams himself back into the ground. He stands up again rotating his left shoulder. He glances over at Qrow, eyes glowing in disharmonic colors. He turns his head, neck cracking in the motion. He shivers as he reaches for that power once more, the one that turned the Merga Wraith to partial stone. His left eye turns from a dark grey to a vibrant silver, a mist of power leaking from the tear duct.

He pictures his inner mind and a hand reaching inside. He tries to focus and grasp that light. And nothing happens. Outside of his mind in the real world it looks like he's lost interest and entirely spaced out. Body twitching and sweating in the effort, he lets out a cry of exertion. Qrow shrugs, and with a grinding sound his sword reconfigures into it's ranged form. Lining up a shot he fires forth a slew of buckshot at Philip. It hits full force in his chest knocking him to the ground once more, his machete flying from his hand.

"FUCK!" Philip cries. A hand touches his chest then chuckles. The chuckles grow to a full blow laugh. "Bullet proof vest asswipe!" He throws his legs back and surges to his feet, landing on the pads of his feet. He doesn't notice the streams of blood beading up from the punctures. He laughs and lopes at Qrow. He grabs his machete from the ground on the way there and holds it angled to parry another blow.

Qrow watches disgusted. No sense of self preservation, even if he has sped up somehow. A berserker? He readies himself to swing, no sense in wasting movement if this numb skull is just going to waste himself. But then Oz did just say to push his buttons and see how he fights. Philip strikes out a slash at Qrows head, only for it to be blocked. A follow up punch with Philips other hand however catches the former bandit off guard, impacting his jaw. Qrow moves with the momentum slashing upward in a strike that would bifurcate a weaker opponent. Philip reaches with the power that he knows works. Qrow blinks, his opponent no longer in front of him. Philip lurches into Qrows very shadow. A whirling kick jars into Qrow side from behind staggering him. Qrow backs up racing around in circles raining blows enhanced with velocity on Philip, who barely parries them aside.

Philip takes a breath, focusing, his perception of time slowing by a hair. There must be a weakness he can exploit in this drunks' defenses. He's arrogant that's for sure, but to Philips chagrin it's warranted. But maybe that's it? He leaves himself open on his left side knowing that it may be obvious. But to his luck, and pain, it seems to Qrow that it was an obvious weak point in his defense, rather than a obvious trap. Qrow swings in with his blade and Philip twists his body, trapping the sword in his armpit. Long term a bad move, possible loss of his arm, but the satisfying smack of a second head-butt directly to Qrows forehead is music to Philips ears. Even if the ringing would make it hard to hear. He leaps back, and begins circling, eye warry and watching.

So far Qrow has found a few things about Philips combat style. He is more than willing, almost eager to take a hit, if it means that he can land one of his own. Very brawl-like, almost reminds him of a certain niece of his. Then there is that extreme durability considering he apparently has no aura. Oh SHIT. Qrow backpedals. Philip raises his machete and swings down at Qrow hurling the blade. It whistles through the air, narrowly sailing past Qrow to embed itself in one of the stone pillars. Philip leaps into the air roaring. A wave of primal rage bursts from his body impacting Qrow before the balled hammer blow does to his brainpan. Aura flaring a again the combination staggers Qrow, but there is no time for such a thing. He swings his blade at Philip only for Philip to block it with an arm. It sinks through the thin button up shirt into his flesh, the massive amounts of scar tissue as thick and durable as hardened leather. It stops an inch into his arm, and Philip rages at the pain, before he ignores it in favor of yanking the arm towards himself, the embedded blade pulled from the grasp of the foe in front of him.

The Mecha shift blade wrenched out of his hands Qrow begins to reconsider his approach. His semblance seems to have it out for him right now, and he's been disarmed in a brutal fashion. "Hey Philip, enough man! Oz just wanted me to test your skills he-" A solid knee to the gut knocks the wind from his lungs. Qrows aura blocks the blow, but it does little to mitigate the effect of the air leaving his lungs without his consent. Philip goes low and grabbing an arm with his left hand he then hoops his arm between Qrows' legs. Lifting with his legs, he flips Qrow back first into the pavement. Philip roars again, a silver hued energy billowing off his arms and upper torso, as he grabs Qrows' leg and lifts him off the ground. He draws him up into the air and slams him down opposite himself. Qrow leans into the grab kicking Philip in the face and pushing off loosening the grip, the ballistic helmet getting knocked lose in the process. He spins in the air righting himself landing on his own two feet, whilst Philip reels from the newly broken nose, blood spewing down his front.

Qrow moves advance instantly. A right jab straight to the face, followed by a left cross, right jab, left haymaker combo slam into Philip. His left eye flashes silver light, and a dim light suffuses his body, muted by the rapid pace of the brawl. Qrow watches the light rethinking about how Oz said no Aura. What had he really said? 'Mr. Kindred is in a rather difficult to define state with his Aura. Yes, he has one, and it may be unlocked, but that may be only to a degree. With the Aura boosters Peach injected him with seeming to have no effect, we can discern that it may just be incapable of manifesting. I want you to test him if you will. You possess a unique ability to, let's say, to get through to people.'

Philip stomps his right foot down, fracturing some of the tile beneath it. "Graaaagggghhhhhh!" He bounds forward, arms in a modified boxer's stance and launches an explosive jab with his right. Qrow backhands the blow to the side, and Philip spins with momentum and toss a left elbow. The Branwen raises his right forearm catching the blow wincing. Every bloody punch just keeps getting harder and faster. The cybernetic-eyed man whirls around again wrapping his right arm under black-haired left armpit. Bring his fist up opposite the other shoulder Philip locks his hands into a headlock and tries to throw Qrow to the ground. Qrow weaves out of the grapple and sweeps out his leg to trip the other man. Philip loses his balance having one of his legs knocked out from beneath him.

His arms spin at his sides trying to catch his himself but he stumbles on some destroyed tilework. "Cut it out Phil, I don't want to get serious with you. Ozpin really did just want me to test your combat skill." Philip groans from the ground, the fall having nixed his berserker bloodlust. "Some test jackass." He sits up some debris sliding off his shoulders. "You used live ammo on me." He sighs. "Least the vest worked on that scatter gun you have." He thumps himself in the chest only to wince. "Must be bruised."

Qrow stares at him outright confused. "You don't feel that?" "Feel what?" Philip looks at the hand that he hit himself in the chest with. The blood coating says what the lack of pain doesn't. "Holy shit!" The man looks down at his chest to see dozens of holes in the reinforced fabric, tiny streams of blood seeping through. He frantically begins pulling at the straps and buckles on the armor trying to pull it off in order to check his wounds. "Dam it all! It looked the same but even this is different!" Qrow holds up his hands placatingly. "Let me help. Least I can do since I, uh… well shot you." Philip grunts.

It takes far longer than it should, much longer than it took to put it on in the first place Philip seems to think, before the ruined vest is torn off his bruised and bleeding form. He rips the shirt off, button popping from their respective holes, and several newer ones. "Gods above." Qrow whispers. Hearing it from Oz was one thing but seeing it? It was mortifying.

Malformed scars, and bruises in all levels of fading and fresh litter the torso of Philip, the newly made divots in his flesh adding to a tapestry near two years in the making. The wounds are shallow, and the blood is seeping slower now, the streams more of a trickle. "Ah fuck." Philip looks over at Qrow. "What did you load those things with anyway? Fléchettes? Or just lead?"

Qrow shakes his head. "Just low-grade Burn Dust and Aluminum pellets." Philip nods, the worry of lead poisoning no longer a concern. But here comes the hard part. Tracking the flow of one wounds he brings his hands up to injury. Like one would a zit or pimple he pushes at either side until the pellet comes out with a sickening *pop*. The two make small talk, while Philip does the process a total forty-six times, comparing the wastes of Michigan to Qrows' own upbringing.

"So you were born in a bandit tribe?" "Nah, The bandit tribe. The Branwen tribe, same as the name. The strong survive the weak die, and all that dumb shit." He pulls out a flask and downs a gulp before passing it to Philip. He nods. He takes a gulp, an ale of some nature. It burns on the way down. But when he pours the rest on his bleeding chest? That burns. "Aghhhh." Through grit teeth a hiss escapes as he passes the flask back to Qrow. "I left some in before you get pissy."

Qrow raises a finger to object, but then gets a complicated look in his eyes, before he shrugs and puts it away. "Disinfectant?" Philip nods. "If I had money, I'd buy you more, but as of yet still nil." Qrow waves a hand. "Nah, after this we both need a drink and I'll buy. I'll even toss in some for your particular vice." Philips' eyes widen open. "You mean this world does have tobacco?! I'd thought myself having to cease cold turkey! What a magnanimous joy is thus! I can finally stop the blighted twitching!" A true laugh, without cynicism or angst bubbles up from his lips.

"We might be good friends yet you bandit bastard!" "OI! Like I need to be reminded on either part of that." Philips laugh dies down some. "Turnabout and what not as they say." Qrow glares at him, only to start chuckling himself. "You're even more crazy than half of my students at signal combined!" The laughter rings through the now quiet mid-afternoon sunshine. Philip runs a hand across his chest expecting blood to still be leaking from the wounds. To his amazement barely any comes off. Only the residue and scabs remain among the dark red hair that sparsely dots his chest. "The hells this? Aura?" Qrow looks over at him. He shrugs. "Maybe. Ozpin told me you didn't have it unlocked. At least properly. You sure as hell used type of muscle boosting technique during that scrap."

Philip nods. "Yeah, I did the research, I saw my medical charts. It's there and unlocked. I'm thinking it isn't exactly normal though." Qrow scoffs but reconsiders his own hidden powers. "You don't say? Maybe you got it unlocked too late in life. I know that's a thing. There's a reason Hunter training starts as early as it does. Or maybe that other world of yours works different? That would make sense." It's Philips turn to scoff now. "The hell it does. But you know what? This whole situation is so FUBARed that this is the most logical thing I've heard yet. I mean really!"

He stands up and gestures wildly with his hands. "Two worlds so like each other and yet so very different! Humankind existing on two separate worlds, with the same language and near identical culture and technology, the only separating factor the strange and esoteric. That of legend, myth and mysticism, and even then, both have found far darker things that lurk and go bump in the night to fear! I would say that such is impossible, but my very life proves it only improbable, or the proof of the meddling of higher forces that go unseen!"

A silver light, with dark-purple gradients whirls around him, as his impromptu speech reaches a climax. The glow coats his body, before it sinks into his skin, the hue changing slightly, becoming paler as sunburn and tan alike fade with the rapid restorative properties of Aura, magnified by the strange, mutated, and augmented nature of the massively hyper-adapted body of Philip Kindred.

Qrow shields his eyes from the glow, the color vibrant. As the light fades, he looks at the guy who just managed to force out his own Aura by blathering some philosophical nonsense that sounded like a mix of Port and Ozpin. "I call bullshit! You did too have a fully unlocked Aura you jackass! Why the hell didn't you use it in the fight?" Philip looks over at Qrow. He shrugs. "I didn't know how. Watching you utilize your own gave me an idea of how I was supposed to channel it. Besides books are great, but they explained almost nothing in a practical sense."

He grunts in exertion holding his bleeding arm in front of his face. A silver and purple energy suffuses the gash, muscle fibers knitting themselves back together. "Don't think I'll be able to do that shielding thing though. My gut tells me that might be asking for too much too soon." He looks over his body, the wear and tear of the most brutal time of his life evident all over it. "You know if this can help with scars?"

Qrow shrugs. "Most of the time yeah, but you may have too many bud. It could thin them out, or maybe get the newer ones, but shit if I know." Qrow stands up dusting himself off. "You want to grab a new shirt? Then we can go get wasted." Philip grins. "I don't need to get a new one. Just give me about five minutes, I have my sewing kit with me." Qrow quirks an eyebrow. "A sewing kit? You know how to sew? Doesn't surprise me at any rate."

Phillip tears off the sleeves from his shirt, noting that the material is actually very durable, and it resists the effort. Taking up his machete he cuts several strips from the material before lining it up the rags on his body. Pulling the rest of the shirt off he reaches into one of the pockets over on the vest. Drawing out a needle and tying several loose threads together he carefully stiches the shirt back together. The buttons are a bit of a struggle, but soon Philip triumphs. With the last strips of cloth from the sleeves Philip made sure not to leaves the rip marks along the seams along the arms. And thus, the result is a button up shirt, plain, white but with no sleeves. Hauling the vest back on he looks at the helmet. Several cracks run through the ceramic material rendering it nigh worthless. "Dam. I'd liked the look of this thing. Hides the shaved head."

"So, you aren't balding then? Go figure." "Qrow, I can and will go grab a weapon that I know how to use and kick your grey-haired ass!" "Hold up! You don't know how to use that knife thing? I would have never guessed, since you were just swinging it all over the place." Philip sighs, exhaustion subjectively mental at this juncture. His body feels more powerful than ever, but his mind is as the tumultuous nature of a raging hurricane. "All considered, I don't specialize my weapons like you folks have. Most of the stuff I could make myself broke after a while, or the good stuff was in terrible condition. I suppose you could call me a combat generalist."

"So that means what? You half suck at a bunch of weapons? Instead of being mediocre at one?" Qrow badgers. "Whatever. We going to this bar of yours or not?" Qrow smirks. "Yeah I think you'll like it. It's called the Crow Bar" Philip takes a deep breath. He then slams his head into a pillar, cracking the stone. Qrow pulls out his scroll while Philip is distracted by the terrible pun. His Aura reads at 74%. 'Dam that guy hits hard. He's on par with a third-year student from Beacon, minimum.' Qrow glances over at the guy slamming his face into a pillar. He continues to repeat this, intent to do it ad infinitum, until Qrow grabs his arm. "Ah come on it wasn't that bad! Let's go." He drags Philip away from the pillar, off to a place of booze, brotherhood, and most likely hangovers.

* * *

On the Bullhead ride into Vale however, he messages Ozpin about Philips ability.

'_He has this shadow jumping thing he can do. Oz, I think it might be magic. He just moved and then he was behind me. Port was there too, ask him if you dare.'_

'_He hits like a truck. Large amount of raw physical power, and he's brutal. Hand-to-hand style is grapple heavy. No idea on semblances, but he heals faster than anyone I've ever seen. I watched this guy as he pulled his arm back together from a blow of my sword. And that too. He blocked my Sword with his ARM! No aura in it or anything that I could tell. His skin is like thick leather or something it's crazy.'_

'_How is beyond me, but he has this as childish as it sounds, roar thing. He screams and it's like I'm trying to face down a Goliath. Literal killer intent. I don't trust him, but I don't think he could lie to save his life.'_

'_He's dead inside. All those laughs and shit is fake. He says to me _'Eyes are the windows to the soul'_ Well his have no light in them. I don't doubt him anymore.'_

'_Going to try and get him drunk, see if he'll loosen up some. See if he can keep up with me. Will message later. Or will stagger back to the grounds and pass out on a bench. Either or.'_

* * *

A/N: Yeah this was delayed a bit. I got a new job, and have been working more, and with better pay. Mix that with D&D having a new schedule tacked onto it and a tiny mess appears. Either way, hope you all enjoyed, and until next update folks.

DRINK COFFEE It's AWESOME!


	4. A New Beacon of opportunity Pt 3

**I still own nothing. As much as I wish I did, I do not. All rights go to the folks to whom thy belong, you all know the drill.**

* * *

The bar ended up a bust. How? "Closed for renovations?!"

Philip pats Qrow on the back. "Sorry I guess?" He shrugs. "There are probably other bars in Vale, right? If we look, we are bound to find one." Qrow slumps onto the ground. "Yeah but it's not the same. This place just had a certain charm ya know?"

"Because it had your name in the name?" Philip deadpans. "Pretty much." Qrow states. Philip scoffs. Looking around the area he spies a small convenience store down the block. If the obnoxious and obvious neon plastered all over the windows. "Hey. You said you'd chip in, right? Can I uh, borrow some cash? er… lien? Lein?" "It's called Lien. And yeah, here's a 50. Go crazy. And by that, I mean enjoy yourself, not lose your shit." Philip grunts an affirmative while Qrow gazes forlorn at the door of the building.

'Is that even enough? Whatever, the need for nicotine overrules the need for things to make any sense.' Philips walks calmly over the store, even though inside he is writhing. A tiny ding sound goes off as he opens the door. The store is the same as any other. That is top say aisles of junk food in colorful packaging, tube lights hanging from flimsy ceiling panels with strange stains, that are somehow on the ceiling. Lines of coolers on the backwalls filled with all manner of fizzy drinks, and caffeinated ones to sate your 2:00 AM cravings. It even had spindly looking employee being harassed by several thugs. 'Oh, blighted swamps take you all!'

"- look You, you need to leave, or, or I'll call the cops!" "And who will they believe, you or me you Half-breed freak!" Philip looks at the situation at hand. The attendant is obviously a Fuanus, one with some sort… tusks? Two off white ivory tusks protrude from the sides of the teller's mouth, reaching out several inches from his face, the ends stopped with small tassels, and intricate shapes and patterns carved, perhaps painted onto them. The man is scrawny which considering he appears to be an elephant Fuanus is ironic, and to the four racists, for what else could they be, hilarious.

Upon entering the attention of two of the thugs is drawn to the sound of the door alert, and they set eyes upon Philips scared form. One elbows the other, and they step towards the door. "Hey pal, stores closed." Philip leans to the side looking past the human wall of people taller than him. Not that it's difficult, being all of five foot ten, most people are taller than Philip. "Looks open to me. On top of that you're out of uniform. I need to speak with your manager."

Tweedledumbass looks over Tweedledipshit, as Philip thus dubs them in his mind. "Uh, what?" Philip pushes past the morons, bowling Tweedledumbass to the ground. He marches up to the register ignoring the entire situation around him. He slams his hands down on the counter. "You got Cigarettes?!" The poor sod nods just as confused as everyone else is at this development. "I'll take a pack." The employee licks his lips, glancing back and forth between the thugs and this weird looking guy with a glowing eye. "W… w… what brand?"

Philip pauses and turns his gaze upwards. "I have found God! I'll take that one" he says pointing at a random package. "Si… Sir? Those are Cigars. N… n-Not cigarettes." Philip's face splits open, teeth shining in the light. He claps his hands and then rubs them together viciously. "Will this cover it?" he asks holding up the strange plastic-like card. "Uh, yes sir." The attendant hands him the package and several other cards back. Philip looks down at the returned cards, the color different. "What's this?"

"It's mine now dumbass." A voice looms over his shoulder, followed by an arm reaching down and grabbing the chits. "And while I'm at it I'll take everything else you got too." Philip turns around looking up at the figure behind him. "Oh, you're still here? Go away, before I remove you." He reaches to grab his sweet, sweet _Cigars_ of all cherished things, but that same arm reaches down and plucks them from his hand. A twitch starts up in his left eye.

Philip takes a breath and his shoulder tense. His voice cracks violently, turning to a piercingly high-pitched cackle, with words articulated heavily on the consonants. "I am going to hurt you now." An elbow blurs back slamming into an unprepared abdomen, and a gout of air is pushed from a pair of lungs.

Philip spins around, his cybernetic eye a vapid purple, with wisps of energy pouring out in an incoherent fury. No that wasn't it. Fury was too small in this circumstance! Nothing less than pure unmitigated Ire would do. The blow had the thug reeling, hunched over and gasping in pain for air. Two of the others are raising their fists, the last reaching into his jacket for something. They freeze slightly in fear, the glowing of the thermal vision mode, projecting in small store. Philip lunges, grabbing the taller man by the throat. He squeezes. Hard. A sad gurgling sound is heard as he slams the oaf into the ground, shaking the shelves and knocking merchandise to the floor. Something bashes him over the head. It breaks.

"What the-" The exclamation is cut off, as Philip sweeps out with his legs, spinning on one hand, turning break dancing deadly. He shifts his weight to his other hands and pushes off the ground, spinning in the air to land on the pads of his feet. "Shit! He's a Huntsman!" The prone thugs pull themselves off the ground. They try to run, only for Philip to _shift_ over to the door. His face twists, smile seeming to reach his ears. He speaks once more in the horrifying high voice. "Not so fast boys. We are going to play a game. It's called I break your bones and take back what's mine! It ends when I hear sirens!"

The facade has cracked, and Philip feels his reason slipping away. But does it matter, he wonders? Even his rage could be controlled, but the desire to inflict pain like this is new, and mildly concerning. Concerning because it feels so very familiar… Blood dripping down the back of his head, terror in the eyes of those before him. A sense of rightness flickers in his mind. The leader of the thugs raises his hands above his head. The others do the same, fear in their eyes. Philip takes a breath. 'What am I doing?' He smacks the side of his head, the glow fading as his eye switches back to normal. 'Dam thing keeps acting up. I'll have to check it out back at camp. Beacon, I mean.'

"Hey." He says startling everyone in the building beside himself. His voice returned to normal, he looks over at the cashier. "Do you carry rope? Or have any duct tape?" The scared Fuanus shakes his head rapidly. "Great. How does this sound folks? Give me back my money, my cigars, and we call it good. I let you leave, and you get to keep your injuries to a minimal."

"Uh, sounds great. Here!" The leader of the toughs throws down the items, and Philip steps aside letting them leave. They flee rapidly, the last one out tripping in the door. He hits the ground hard but scrambles to his feet and follows the others. Philip picks up his items and turns to regard the Fuanus at the register. "So, what was that all about anyway?"

The elephantine man stirs from his stupor. "The big one was trying to buy some beer." He points on the counter at a case of the afore mentioned liquor. "He gives me a ten, I tell him that's not enough. Next thing I know there are four of these guys, and they are all saying he gave me a hundred and demanding that I give him change."

Philip grunts. "Creative way to rob a place, if nothing else." The cashier scoffs. "I was going to call the cops you know. But that works just as well, I suppose. Tell you what," The Fuanus gestures to the eight-pack of glass bottles. "He left without this. You can take them. You look like you might need them."

"Thanks. How much did he have left to pay anyway?" The cashier laughs. "No just take it. Consider it a gift since you saved me the trouble. The security panel is a bitch to reset." Philip notches an eyebrow and glances at the ceiling above the counter. His vision mode cycles following his curiosity. Electromagnetic. Yet another vision mode he now realizes he never bought but has proven useful. The glow of an automated cage system meets him. "Ha. Go figure. Have a good one sir." He reaches out and grabs the beer. "I know I will."

The door closes behind him as he works his way back over to Qrow. He takes a breath of the air, marveling the similarity of it to how DMC smelled. Again, it astounds him just how similar it all is. 'Murphey?' Glancing side to side he checks for some random thing to go wrong. Nothing. Pulling up the pack of Cigars he looks at the colorful packaging. _**Huntsman Special**__ The Only Self-lighting brand designed entirely for those who guard us from the Grimm! *New* Built in Fire dust lighting, just use your aura and burn away! _'Just focus my Aura and it should light itself, huh?' Philip reaches for the mystical energy that comes from his soul to draw it manifest.

He snaps his fingers trying to see if he can use his finger as a lighter. Nope. Grumbling he reaches into his back pocket for a box of matches to light up. The striking of a match draws forth a small flame, burning in the low evening light. He draws it in breathing the first trickles of sweet, sweet nicotine in about a week. "Ahhhhh. Wow this cigar is terrible." He pulls a second draft of the smoke. Little better than the first. "Suppose this will take some getting use to." He exhales, blowing a perfect ring, chuckling to himself.

A few more steps and he's back. "Oi, Qrow!" The sadly sober drunk, turns over to the voice. Then he sees what Philip hold in one hand. "Heads up." Philip tosses a bottle over and Qrow deftly catches the middle-tiered beer. Looking at the label only long enough to see what brand it is Qrow grins. "Third favorite stuff here. Nice." Popping the cap with an aura enhanced thumbnail Qrow takes a drink. "Ahhhhh." He lets out sigh of contentment, Arm raised in a toast to the bringer of the beer. Philip cracks half a smile, before letting a wave of smoke out his nose. "Not a total bust tonight then, eh?" Qrow nods agreeing. "How do we get back?"

-BREAK-

"What made you think this was a good idea?! You knew that was the last airship to the city for the night!" Philip bellows Qrow. He swings his machete into the skull plate of a Beowolf cleaving through the bone with startling ease. It cleaves bone and shadow-flesh through all the way into the ground. "Shit!" He yanks his blade back up and raises his opposite arm up to block the blow of an Ursa. It hammers into it dislocating his elbow. Qrow whirls around a tempest of swings and carnage parting the tide of Grimm like a farmer his wheat. Fitting it would seem as his dammed sword turns into a fragging Scythe. Philip roars in the face of the Ursa spittle flying from his mouth along with the half-gone stub of his cigar. He slashes with his blade embedding into the shoulder of the bear-like Grimm. He pushes his muscles grasping at his burgeoning Aura manipulation skill to try and enhance his physicality. The blade tears through the bone and sinew with a sickening feeling that just doesn't feel right.

The machete carves into the Ursa's ribcage shattering the bones more than cutting through them. The beast slumps down dead. Philip drops the blade and grasps at his left arm. 'Nothing is broken, lots of pain. Gonna hurt worse real fast.' Grabbing his joint he wrenches it back into place. The pain flares then, fades as all dislocated joints and limbs do. The surrounding Grimm eye him warily. Philip walks over to one of the Beowolves picking up his machete on the way. The beasts pause suddenly, their target no longer in sight, not even able to be smelled. Philip tsks in his mind. This ability of his easier to use than ever. 'Maybe it is my semblance? I need do some soul searching soon.' His face contorts in the space between spaces these _shifts_ seem to take him. 'Bad pun. Blame Qrow later.'

Appearing behind the Beowolf as intended he hacks into its spine, using the same tactics he would against a Dogman. The blade slides right though the vertebrae paralyzing its lower legs. He cleaves off the arm of another, hacking with brutal abandon. A stocky two-legged Grimm that looks more jaw then body rushes at him. It bites down on his arm, taking the machete into its gullet. Philip screams at the pressure and hammers his other fist into the thick bone plating on its face. At first the blows do nothing, but as Philip begins to channel his aura into his arm and fist it begins to crack the plates. The constant pounding causes the teeth to tear into the meat on Philips arm shredding the muscles tissue down to the bone. Philip yanks his arm out of the dying Creeps mouth leaving parts of himself in its mouth.

"FUCK! Qrow I need a hand here, literally!" Qrow parts the tide in the sea of Grimm that linger around Philip slashing with his scythe. Standing at guard his weapon on his shoulder he parts a glance at Philip. "Oh, dam!" Philip is holding his arm ragged gashes torn out of it. His jaw is clenched, teeth bared. Smoke flows from his nose, the last bits from his lungs leaving as he grits trough the muted pain. A dim purple glow covers the wound, and the bleeding slows but then fades after it stops, nothing else happening. "What the hell? You need to figure out how to make Aura into a shield fast dude." He swings his scythe around his self, decapitating an Ursa that approached from behind him without looking.

Philip glares at Qrow pain in his face. "I've had worse." He looks at his wound. Chucks of muscle and skin are missing from the injury. Peering into the dissolving maw of the slain Creep he spies his missing bits. Grimacing he grasps the bloody pieces of his arm and slaps them back into where they once were. Qrow gags and moves over to a nearby bush. The smoke hovering around his body gravitates toward the wound, both from the dying Grimm and from the still lit stub of cigar lying in the distance on the ground.

With the Grimm dead Philip looks around the trail that they were walking on. It had seemed peaceful at first. Near idyllic even. Philip looks at his wounded arm watching the rent flesh knit itself back together. It is sickeningly captivating. "What's the matter Qrow? Thought you said you could hold your liquor?" Philip yells over. Qrow wipes his face with his sleeve, small quantities of sick stuck to the corners of his mouth. "Oh, I can hold my booze perfectly. That what I just saw was something else."

Philip nocks an eyebrow. "Squeamish?" Qrow shakes his head. "Nah. I've dealt with gore before, but you have something very wrong with you. How in the name of Dust are you not screaming in pain right now?" It is Philips turn to shake his head. "Deadened nerve endings. Or severe nervous system damage take your pick. I was strapped into an electric chair once and zapped with enough voltage to kill a man." His eye glazes over a faraway look in his eyes. "It was at an insane asylum, or a mental institution either works as to what you'd call it."

Philip looks over at Beacon, the massive campus visible atop the cliff. "I was looking for answers, who I was, and why, always WHY!" Philip growls out, before he closes his eye. He lets out a breath before he continues. "The cult of the Blue Frog were all once normal people, maybe. I was scavenging in a city called Saginaw. I knew the risks about that place. Mad cultists, ridden with a disease called 'Blue Rot'. It was bad, and a killer. Vomiting, fever, and it led to the eventual destruction of the lungs. I saw people cough out pieces of their own organs into their hands."

"But," Philip continues, "It was worth the risk for those reasons." Qrow nods along. "Makes sense. A Reputation like that and folks would stay far away from that place." Philip nods. "That was the idea. I figured that I might be able to find some decent gear, anything I could use." He chuckles. "At the time I was using a freaking broken ended garden hoe as a spear. I wanted, no needed, something better. I though I would be safe because I had grabbed a sash from a dead cultist. And safe I was. But that was the problem. They knew I wasn't one of them. And they made me think that they didn't know. Next thing I know I get drugged with sleeping pills and dragged into an initiation ceremony." Philip runs his hand across two small scars on his head, on his temples. "They had three trials. The trial of water. The of trial fire. And the trial of light. Translated meaning waterboarding. Being tossed into a burning oven. And getting strapped into an electric chair."

"I saw seven men and four women die in these blight-take-them trials. I was one of two survivors. And to be honest I have no idea how I made it out." He drags his hand down his face, scratching at the growing stubble. "I went down a hall way. Just some random ass hallway, trying to find a way out before I catch the disease. I was desperate. Dove out a window on the third floor."

"And you didn't have any Aura?" Qrow asks. Philip shakes his head no. "Death by fall or death by illness. Least the one was faster." Philip chuckles. By now the two had made it to the cliffs surrounding Beacon. Philip reaches into his pocket for another smoke. Drawing out a book of matches he lights up another of the cheap cigars, chewing on the end. Tossing the burnt-out match to the ground he drives it into the dirt with his heel. No need to start a forest fire after all. "Yeah, well I didn't die though. No, I just managed to get some extreme scarring on my hands." He flexes his fingers. "Grabbed ahold of the side of the building, old brickwork, lots of loose pieces. Tore my skin to shreds, and I was dammed fucking lucky there weren't guards out and about in the area. Climbed down as fast as I could. Having a grip enough to crack a walnut open can allow ya that." He glances over towards Beacon looking at the sheer cliff face between it and him. He cracks his neck blowing smoke out his nose. "Let me show you even." He latches a hand to the stone, fingers searching for a hold. Finding what he's looking for Philip begins to scale the cliff.

Qrow laughs. "Nice technique." The drunkard lists to the side. He had consumed all the beers, bar one that Philip nabbed for himself. So, the nominally buzzed Huntsman is near fully inebriated, a good deal more drunk than normal. Thus, the next words out of his mouth would be no surprise to those who know how childish drunk people can be. Or for that matter, how immature Qrow is. "Wanna race?" And so, the great cliff climb began. The winner of which would forever be debated, if only for the sake of persevered dignity. Whose is to this day, up for debate. However legends say that someone's semblance went haywire due to being drunker than normal, and many attempts were needed to even get halfway up the thing.

-BREAK-

The trip back to Beacons infirmary is quiet and morose. 'I should be able to make a shield around myself with my Aura. So why can't I?' Philip wonders. He raps on the door to the location, the loud sound echoing through the predominantly empty building complex.

"Come on in Philip. I know it's you!" Eyebrow quirked Philip pushes the door open to see the woman known as Peach looking over a chart. "You were expecting me?" he peers at the chart something clicking in his head at the sight. That is a scan of his body. Or maybe it was. "You want to explain how all the medical records we had started to collect on you just up and faded away like they were never there to begin with?" "That, tends to happen… No idea why, but," He pauses scratching at the scars riddling his neck. He reaches for the pack of cigars in his shirt pocket grabbing one and putting it to his lips. He stops suddenly. Drawing one partway from the pack he pushes it towards the sword wielding warrior woman. "Would you care for one? Or do you not partake?"

Peach gazes at the offered stick of tobacco and dust additives. She rapidly shakes her head, a negative. "Well then I have no idea as to why it happens. I suspect I am haunted by some specter. Aside the Merga that's to say. My past, whilst hidden from my own self, I have discovered a few facts. My Ostracon." Peach nods at this revelation. "You think that something followed you through the…" She pauses a grimace on her face. "That portal? It makes no sense! The portal or you!" she gestures to the sheet, blanked of all it's information. "How can a world exist without DUST?" she emphasizes. "Man descended from Dust, or at least some studies say so. I don't believe that for a second but as a woman of science None of it should be possible."

Philip taps his metal eye. "Yeah well that's fine and all but I was hoping to get a few things looked at. Unless you'd rather talk about things I know little to nothing about instead we can do that." Peach stops her attempted tirade. "Fine." She pouts, "But we will have this conversation sooner rather than later. What was it you wanted to talk about then?"

Philip again taps his eye, the off neon green light flashing in response. He growls at the unwilling change of sight mode trying to glare at his own eye with the other. Sighing he re-focuses the optic on the person he was speaking with. "This thing. I don't suppose you know anything about cybernetics?" She shrugs. "More than most. But your tech doesn't run on dust, so I'd be going in blind."

A pause.

"If you expect me to respond to that pun, you'll be disappointed." Peach grins. "Was worth a shot. What's wrong with it?" Philip pushes in on the eye pressing it further into the socket until a loud clicking sound is heard. Holding his hand underneath, it pops out of the socket a slight sloshing sound to be heard. A trail of wires flows out and a few drops of either blood or a lubricant drip from the empty cavity. "It keeps switching vison modes on me. More to point it changes to modes that this model shouldn't even have installed."

Peach reaches into her desk, the neat stacks of paper at a disharmony with the absolute chaos of how the writing utensils were placed. Red pen next blue instead of having the black one act as a buffer? Madness at it's greatest! From a drawer Peach pulls a odd device. Buttons and dials all over the place and a small energy field sustained tow sensor wands emerging from the top of the instrument. Holding the optic device, she puts the eye in the field of energy, the device somehow able to keep it hovering in the air. A panel opens on the bottom of the device and a projection shines down onto the desk detailing an inside out view of the eye, the specs and the construction of it revealed.

"Hmmmm…" goes Peach. "HmMMmm…" goes Philip. "Any idea what we are looking at here?" He asks. "Nope." Replies peach. Ah. Well then. She pulls her eyes from the display to Philip. "Anything else bothering you? This thing may take a while to diagnose the issues. It is supposed to be a universal tool, or so Atlas tells us."

"Aside from random memory flashes that make no sense and never seem to have context involved, I find myself unable to externally project my aura into a shield." Peach grins. "I know a way to fix that!" Philip feels his hopes raise. "Really? What would that be?"

*minor break*

"A spar still was not what I had in mind!" Philip bellows as he ducks under a massive sweeping blade, wind brushing across his naked scalp. 'If I had hair, I wouldn't have hair after that swing. Is she trying to kill me?' He backpedals giving ground. Peach resets her stance, the giant of a sword held in front of her, one arm behind her back. She grins. "Well the best way to learn how to use Aura is in a situation where to be unable to do so would cause you harm." She lunges forward, a stab Philip only manages to avoid by the slightest of margins. "How in the lords name are you able to swing that thing with one hand?!" Peach ignores Philips question and instead powers on with her 'lesson'.

"Aura is the manifestation of the soul, drawn out to guard and protect us. It heals our wounds and strengthens our bodies. As Huntsmen and Huntresses, it is what makes us able to dispose of the Grimm!" She whirls around the massive Zweihander with ease, a series of downward chops wind milling forward like a demented side-ways lawnmower. Philip focuses with all his mental might on his arms bracing them with a X shaped block. The sword sinks into the thick layers of scar tissue and skin covering his arms but goes no further. Peach pulls her blade back toward her the motion cutting deeper into Philips arms drawing blood. He brings his arms down to his sides, shaking loose several drops of blood.

Peach looks over at the injury. "Anything that time?" Philip looks at his wound. Blood slowly seeps from a shallow cut, one that is rapidly closing with a plum hued vapor rising from it. "No. No shield. However, I managed to focus enough Aura into my arms that your blow didn't cleave my arms in twain. So that's something at least."

Peach shakes her head. "Still nothing? At this rate I'm beginning to suspect that your Aura might be broken." Philip stares at the wisps of energy floating off his injury as it knits itself together again. "Broken how? None of the books I read through had that term in them."

Peach sits down on a bench of the sparing arena. Pulling a chilled bottle of water from a cooler she chucks one at distracted man. The object rushes at him as fast as a baseball despite the non-aerodynamic nature of its shape. However, he currently lacks 50% of his visual abilities totaled, and 100% of those abilities from the side the bottle was thrown from. But one conclusion could transpire from such an action. Unless you considered the level of paranoia a scav has.

Philip shifts in place the air displacement betrayed by an odor of tobacco smoke, and wisps of purple hued energy. A silver eye glares at the pink ones that seem to crinkle with suppressed mirth. His empty socket coughs out a few sparks. He snorts, before reaching into his pocket to grab some matches. Striking one against the box he lights the fresh cigar resting in between his lips. Taking in a breath he glares at the woman, before waking over to the discarded bottle at the other end of the room. Draining half the bottle he hurls it back, only for it to go sailing off to the side by a significant margin.

"Ffff…" Philip starts before looking at the figure sitting on the bench laughing at him. The female figure. "Rench fries." He exclaims. Peach laughs all the harder. "French fries? What kind of cuss is that?"

Philip sighs. "I remember little things. You know, small stuff. I was raised to never curse in front of a woman. To do so was to debase myself." An expression of melancholy graces his battered face. "Little things. And nothing more." He exhales before drawing another breath on his cigar. The smoke calms his nerves. The smoke that defined over half his goal of survival. To find more.

He blinks. All the little things huh? The way the smoke calms him. How his Aura seems to have it as an effect after use. Even when his wounds heal the smoke, not vapor bleeds from it. He looks over to his arm, the one that was savaged by the Creep the night before. His own flesh had knit itself back together after exposure to smoke. He coughs, the revelation striking him suddenly.

He blinks forward and twists to watch his own trail as he moves. More smoke! Always with the smoke, to critical to his very psyche. Without it he rages, and weeps, going in cycles of vapid emotions, paired with a pain that lingers in his scars.

"Ha. Ha. Hahaha" He begins to laugh the timbre of it having an echoing quality to it. It distorts and twists. Peach looks on curious. Philip whirls around, a swath of smoke billowing from his body. It sinks to the ground, before billowing out around him, as if a dark cloak.

"I think-k. I have found my semblance-lance" he echoes out. A feral grin creaks over his face, purple smoke seeping out of the empty socket that would otherwise hold an eye. The smoke alternates color, in all shades of gray and a deep purple. Until it sputters and loses it cohesion.

*Clang*

Peach gasps and her hands cover her mouth in shock. Philip grit his teeth. "Well. That happened." He glances down at the cybernetic mount of his eye. The metal plate sits on the floor little bits of dried blood on the inside. He reaches up to touch the exposed bone of his skull. Running his fingertips over the gouged and scarred bone he grimaces. "There goes that handy little thing."

Little drops of blood begin seep out of the exposed muscles of his cheek. Philips mind stirs, for if the smoke of his semblance can heal new wounds what about old ones? Grasping once more at his nascent control he guides the smoke towards his eye socket, and simply waits.

The smoke hovers there, both Philip and Peach waiting to see if anything would occur. Time passes, one minute. Two. After nearly five minutes of nothing, only then does Philip release his control of the fumes. He gasps for breath as a wave of fatigue hits him, and he falls to the ground. Peach rushes over. "You okay Phil? While that wasn't the most dramatic unlocking of a semblance I've seen, it was certainly the weirdest."

Philip looks up at her, his face devoid of emotion. Where there was once an empty cavity of bone, devoid of skin and muscle, now sits raw flesh and stretched skin. He slowly draws his hand up to his face. The scar is still there. And yet his face is made whole again, even if he still can't see. He pokes a finger into his empty socket teeth clenched at the pain of fresh nerve tissue being exposed to a foreign digit. But there is no whole eye inside.

"Well at least I have my good looks back." He jokes. Peach grimaces. "No, you don't." Philip deadpans. He staggers to him feet, Peach helping him up. His face has skin again, but the cruel scar still sits over his head and into his hair line, but it is faded. It looks more as if it had happened ten years ago instead of one.

Philip wiggles his finger in his empty eye socket. "Does remnant have cybernetic eyes? Or am I going to need to look like some garden variety pirate?" Peach shrugs. "Atlas has them. Vale? Not so much."

She slugs him inn the shoulder. "But hey! You sir have just unlocked your semblance. Some sort of smoke manipulation, and from the looks of it smoke can heal your injuries." The woman gets a gleam in her eye. "Is it only tobacco smoke or could wood smoke work as well. Oh! Maybe even chemical smoke! We can try all sorts of things to test it, we have the facilities here after all." She pouts suddenly. "Lucky! Some of us still don't know our Semblances yet and have been trying to find them for over a decade-and-a-half." Peach continues spouting random bits of trivia about semblances as Philip looks at his own self. 'This woman may be bi-polar.' He muses. He lights up another of his cigars, the smoke wafting from the match right into his lungs. He inhales deeply before exhaling. But when he does no smoke emerges from between his lips. Plugging his nose, he grins. He pushes the smoke from inside his nasal cavity through his eardrums making the smoke leak out his ears. The feeling is strange, like a pressure behind the sides of his skull, but he laughs. 'I am literally blowing smoke out my ears.' He chuckles amidst Beacon's Head od Medicine ranting. "What a day."

-BREAK-

A light tinkling sound chimes in the distance.

Philips eye snaps open. What feels like a time and a half ago he would have whirled to his feet, knives bared, a roar upon his lips. But now? 'Uhh. Mornings.' A hand flails out and smacks the offending alarm clock. The impact sends the device flying into a wall opposite the end table it had rested upon shattering the fragile, but cheap and easily replaceable machine. Philip sits up his body creaking in protest.

It had been a week since he had unlocked his semblance. Five days since he had agreed to Ozpins terms, becoming Beacons new Head of IT and the wilderness survival instructor. Two days since he figured out his semblance was finite, only letting him draw on smoke he had already absorbed, and that rebuilding his face cost him an entire years' worth of campfires and cigarettes from before he fell into Remnant. And now this morning? He figured out he was going native.

But that might not be a bad thing. Stumbling over to the kitchenette of his teacher's dorm, he sets up a pot of tea. A few dozen white pine needles that had dried overnight, boil up the water and let steep, while he prepares the rest of breakfast. Normally this would be some dried meat, or even just a handful of berries and some edible mushrooms. But now in true functional civilization? Oatmeal time. Setting a second pot on the stovetop he pours in some more water and sets this up to boil as well. Tossing in several handfuls of oats he leaves that to cook.

Going over to his fridge he grabs two eggs out of a carton and cracks them open into a glass, filling it up with some (Maybe cows?) milk. Stirring it to a froth with a fork he downs the power drink. 'I haven't had one of those since… since…' His face contorts in frustration. "Amnesia is fucking asinine. You think you know something and then poof." A light smell in the air lets him know the rest of his breakfast is ready. Sitting down at the table he looks at his prepared food.

"Hmm… I uh, I don't know if you're there God, but er… Here? If you're here? Like in this world." 'Or would it be dimension?' Philip thinks. "Anyway, uh, been a while. Thanks for keeping me alive, I guess. Must have been crazy to do that, am I right? Uh… Amen then I guess?" While not in particular in a man of faith, recent events, say all of them, have made him wonder. What is This? All of this around him One day he was simply just looking for a military base to upload a data drive for unknown reasons for a guy he has only met seven (or was it eight?) times, and that was only so he could find out why (and how) his memories were stolen and why he was being haunted by the Merga… actually this may be par for the course really. "Go figure." Philip mutters.

Breaking free of his musings Philip finishes his meal. He glances over to the door halfway expecting someone to randomly burst through it. Then again if they do it would set off the combination noise trap and net gun launcher he has jury-rigged to the top of the frame. Paranoia thy name be Philip Kindred. Opening the window to his room he sits down on a stool he set by it for but one purpose.

A good smoke is the best way to end the morning routine Philip aimed to set for himself. And so he does. Overall this has been a good morning. But soon it will cease being so. For if one does teach, one must have a course planned out. Soon it will be time to craft a thing of torture and pain and sorrow. For the students anyway. " A syllabus."

* * *

A/N: This has been sitting on my computer almost done for far too long. I make no claims to publish on a consistent basis, nor will I ever, as such would be a lie. With that in mind, enjoy the chapter. Another will be out sooner or later. Until then try a nice soothing tea. What? Why are you all looking at the page like it grew a second head? I drink both coffee and tea, big deal. Sue me.


	5. A New Beacon of opportunity FIN

**Still don't own piss. All rights go to their respective owners. RWBY to Rooster Teeth, and NEO Scavenger to Blue Bottle Games. If I did Qrow would be less angsty.**

Yes I pad my chapter length with extra words in the bits up top and the Authors notes. Most people on this site do. I find it hilarious.

* * *

*One and half months until the start of the year*

Bracing himself against the wall Philip lets his arms flex down. Then he pushes up. Back and forth. "One-Hundred-Forty-Eight, One-Hundred-Forty-Nine, One-Fifty." Done with his set Philip lets out a breath, smoke cascading from the exhalation. Shaking his head, he lifts his left arm off the ground and prepares to start the next exercise, that being one-armed handstand push-ups. Sweat drips down his chest and face, and the bruises ache from the fight with the training droid. He glances over to the side, eyeing the battered wreckage of said droid. He continues his regiment, musing in his mind about many things. 'Aura.' He thinks to himself. 'This soul magic is nothing less than unfathomable.' "And One-Hundred. Next arm." 'I would never have been able to do this kind of workout before, at least in the shear amount of time I've been at it.' He glances over at the clock. "Four hours huh? Guess that is good enough. On to semblance training" And then there is that mess on top it all. 'Semblance training. Is that really what I call it? It's just a over-glorified smoke break. Not that I am complaining, but the things I can do with this is Major bullshit.'

Aura enhances the body's natural rate of healing as many huntsmen and huntresses are well aware, to varying degrees of course given the differing strengths in aura and the users level of control. But Philip can do something special with that. He used to think that he was a mutant with how fast he could heal, but that was just his aura, meager as it was back in Michigan. His semblance however, lets him consume absorbed smoke to outright replace missing pieces of himself. That and he can manipulate it while it is in the air. He chuckles exhaling a ring. Reaching out to it he shifts the smokes cohesion, darkening it and condensing it, before it becomes a simulacrum of Port's mustache.

An idle hand reaches up and scratches at the fuzz on the top of his head. Not fully bald, but a shaved head all the same. The hand trails over to the scar that runs down his face, the one that took his eye. 'That day. Oh, how wish I could forget it. That's the irony of my life then isn't it?'

He sighs. Time to go see about getting his real weapon. He had put an order in with a smith in vale several days prior and it was set to be completed today. While the spares from the armory were all well and fine, they weren't _his_. The importance of a personal weapon is something he hadn't had time or the ability for back in his home… dimension? Plane? 'Never going to think that is not weird.' Looks look up to the sky beyond the towering ceiling. 'Fuck you Murphy! Thrice blighted cosmic constants…'

Most of Phillip's days were to be spent as the head of I.T. at least according to the way the semester lined up at the start of the year. Only two days of which can be spent upon teaching the survival course. To Philip this is fine. 'Given most of my knowledge is from Earth I might need to double check that Remnant has the same plant life. Normal survival tactics should be the same Shelter, water, and so on.'

Both would dictate a trip to Beacons library. He takes a deep breath, noting one trait that follows a workout. So first a shower is in order. The walk back to his room is quiet, the empty halls echoing his foot-steps. 'I wonder what it would be like full of students?' Dozens of potential defenders of the world. Be it from Grimm or man. 'Or Fuanus.' An afterthought procs up. 'Don't want to forget about them.'

Philip stops at the door to his room. Pulling his scroll out of a holster on an armband he swipes it over his lock. A dull and expressionless version of his own voice sounds out reader. "Password input required." Philip grins. 'Nice. Glad I got that to work. Only took me about a week to figure out the basic system code for these doors. Time well spent.' Punching a 7-digit code into a keypad his door unlocks. Nodding he creaks his door open only by the slightest of margins, feeling up the side of the frame with his hand. Finding the string he slowly pulls it off the nail, ensuring the spike trap wouldn't go off.

Peeling off his shirt and throwing it into a hamper by the bathroom he steps in and looks at himself in the mirror. He prods a few scars, the fading marks slowing being 'healed' by his aura. Philip doesn't like this. Each one of those tells a story, and each one is another lesson he learned one way or another. He smirks. Flexing a bit, he marvels at his physique. When he had first gotten here, he had been lean. 'No, not lean,' he admits to himself, 'I was malnourished, and suffering the side effects of an inconstant diet and food intake.' Add to that the stress he forced his body through every day and the numerous half healed injuries he had on a regular basis it hadn't looked that good. But now? He grins. Almost passable as ruggedly handsome. A short laugh barks out. He knows he's dammed ugly.

The warm water washes the sweat and dust off his skin from the weight lifting room, and soon he looks over the shelf in his shower. A lone unopened bottle of shampoo sits there, as does a much more used razor and shower shave gel. Philip shrugs, now bothering with either for the time being.

A loud yelp is heard from in his den area. "Mr. Kindred! Get this off of me immediately!" a voice calls out. 'Oh dam. Forgot about the net trap.' "But a moment!" he yells out. Shifting out of the shower, he leaves the water behind, drying his skin instantly. Grabbing a towel, he covers himself and reaches back to the shower with some smoke. "Dam it, freaking water is disrupting the cohesion." Turing off the water by hand he walks out into his sitting room to see Goodwitch of all people pined to his wall. A glare that has set many a student into a whimpering mess is affixed to her face. The effect is somewhat dampened by the fact her glasses are skewed, and by the blush that is slowly making its way up. Philip coughs awkwardly. "Just a moment." Grabbing a knife from a drawer in the kitchen he slashes the net. Glynda does not fall to the floor, nor does she slump. With an odd dignity she seems to almost float down. Philip raises an eye-brow. "You know it's rude to let yourself in to someone else's room."

Goodwitch glares at his readjusting her glasses. "It is also rude, Mr. Kindred, to not answer the door when someone knocks at it." Her blush deepens. "However, considering you were busy, it would seem moot." Philip grunts. He walks over to his bedroom door and pulls at the top of the frame. Grabbing a thin line of wire, he trails it over until he unhooks it from a nail embedded into the frame. Opening his door he grumbles back out. "I'll be with you in a moment."

Goodwitch huffs. Walking back over to her weapon she picks it up off the ground. Had she known the net would have fired she would not have been caught in it, never mind have set it off. Disbarring the fact, it exists in the first place. A few seconds pass and soon Philip walks out of his room fully clothed in plain slacks and a dull grey t-shirt bearing the iconography of a wolf and a moon. It's not the same as his lucky T, but it's close enough. Philip motions to his couch. "Sorry about that. Old habits die hard." He mumbles. "Would you care some tea?" A slight smile graces Glynda's face. "Yes please. Herbal if you have it." Philip grins. "I'll do you one better. Have you ever had Tannin?" "No, I can't say that I have."

"I assure you you'll enjoy it." Setting up the tea to steep on the stove Philip sits down in a chair. "So, what brings you over to my little slice of paranoia?" he jokes. Unamused Glynda answers. "I was just seeing how you were settling in. I also wanted to ask if you had set up your course material yet. Have you?" Philips blank look tells her that he has Not in fact prepared for the fact that he is a teacher. "You know you need to submit your syllabus for approval before you can have your class." Philip nods a few times, before reaching for a cigar setting in a tray on his end table. Goodwitch clears her throat. A box of matches sits beside it, and he pulls out one. Goodwitch coughs lightly. Striking the match, he brings it up to the stogie between his lips. A purple glow envelops his hand as Glynda Harshly clears her throat. His one Silver eye travels over to meet two angry green ones. Her countenance is frigid, and for a moment Philip is reminded of the 0-degree night in the dead of winter. One in which the wind howls and shrieks, and the snow is driven sideways into his lean-to.

Slowly he drags his arm to his mouth. The glow intensifies, as does the glare. "You do know we have a no smoking policy inside the building, don't you Phil?" she says, his name sounding as if it were mud. He nods again. "Fully. See though, it doesn't even get into the room, see. I just absorb it right into my semblance." His arm slowly continues it's progress, veins popping out and muscles taunt. His progress slowly stops entirely, not because he can no longer push, but that the match has burnt out. He growls and a bit of smoke seeps out his nose. The sharp whistle of the tea pot breaks the tension. "Ah. That would be the tea. If you would?" Goodwitch release his arm and Philip prepares two cups of Tannin. "It's better hot." He says. "Best to drink it fast." Lifting the cup up he downs it instantly, the hot liquid scalding his taste buds, while the sharp bitter taste sooths. Glynda sips her looks at the dark amber-like color. Sipping a small portion her nose crinkles slightly. "Bitter." Philip shrugs.

"It's an acquired taste." A calm silence descends as the two enjoy the tea. *Beep* *Beep* *Beep* Philip grab his scroll from his pocket. "Seems my weapon is ready. I should go before the Bullheads back to Beacon are closed." He shudders. "I'd rather not walk again. And the climb up the cliff is not something to look forward to." Goodwitch nods. "I shall take my leave then. Thank you for the tea." "Of course." Both of them walk over to the door then stop. Manners overcoming any possible awkwardness he holds the door open for her. "Thank you" "If I didn't open a door for a lady, I'd wager that the father I barely remember would rise from his grave and track me down. Separate world notwithstanding. He'd find a way." Glynda smiles. "Quaint." Stepping back into his room he grabs his scroll, wallet and a few shards and vials sealed dust as well as his almost lit cigar. Biting down on it he moves to light it as he closes the door behind him. Breathing deep he savors the expensive taste of this brand. "Today has been a good day so far. But boring. Wonder if I should jinx it intentionally just so something interesting happens." He says. He stops for moment. 'Like I did just then. Oh great. Pre-emptive fuck you Murphy.' He glares at the ceiling.

* * *

The Industrial district was just as dirty as Philip imagined it would be. Random piles of trash here and there, bums at every third street corner. He takes a deep breath in of the air. Smells like rotten trash, old booze, and solvent. Almost like home. 'Well, the bus I bought out in the DMC sprawl to live out of anyway.'

He thinks back to that bus; the entire thing had been stripped down to the bare metal. Engine block? Gone. Seats? Gone. The windows? Boarded up. The door? A tarp. That had been the first thing he had done, replacing it with re-enforced fiberboard. The lock and key had been harder to find, but well worth the effort. Filling it out had been a hell of a task. But that is a recollection for a different day. Philip glances down at his scroll. "Looks like the forge is seven blocks east of here. Bit of a walk, but still not that far from the landing pad."

He pulls out his cigarette pack, blindly fishing for one of the nicotine-laced tobacco sticks. His lone eye drops down the carboard package, the emptiness a glaring afront to his sensibilities. He looks around the immediate area, the need much more important then his weapon. After all the forge shop is open for another two hours anyway. He glances at his scroll pulling open his search app. The search bar beckons as he types 'Cigarettes and cigars' It buffers for a few moments before an advert pulls up. '_**Blue's Smokes**__: For when you just got to feed the addiction!'_ He hums out a tune, trying to guess how such a line would be as a jingle. "What a fortuitus occasion. Just as I find myself lacking, a new place of which can only have a discerning taste, givens its name!"

A sinking suspicion tells him to look a little deeper into the place. While the advert didn't lead to the site via a link, a little sleuthing never hurt. His eyes widen as the data rolls in. A sly grin draws upon his face. "Looks like this place-ace should be a great way to burn-urn… some time." He echoes out.

The building s painted a muted shade of light blue, a neon sign also in blue, glares out of the large display window. Arrayed in rows are various blends of tobacco, each presented in plain view, along with a picture of the plant that is comes from on a small descriptor card on the side. As the door swings open a little bundle of bells tied with a ribbon to the door frame clangs signaling the arrival of a customer. The store is small, rather a bit of a hole-in-the-wall, and few shelves make up the aisles, each stocked with a multitude of smoking paraphernalia. Bongs, pipes, cigarette holders, novelty ash trays, the store is filled to the brim with it all. Philip takes a deep breathe, the scent of it bringing a tear to his eye. He scratches at the patch over his right orbital, knowing that it will cause a rash if it gets wet.

His semblance stretches out of its own accord, pulling in smoke hovering around the ceiling. He inhales with his nose, savoring the smell, his reserves growing just ever so much. The few customers wandering around don't seem to notice, but a pair of milky white eyes do as the shop keep marches toward him. A walking cane taps its way over, the sound loud in the quiet store, the only thing louder being Philips sudden hiss of pain as it smacks into his shin. Philip hops up on his opposite leg and turns his mono-eyed gaze to that which just hit him, only to soften seeing what it was.

The cane lunges out once more, and smacks into his shin again. The sharp pain making him cry out. "Agh! Sir, that is my shin, not some lamp post!" The blank eyes track his voice, or at least try to. The old mans gaze is off to the right a few feet. A gnarled voice that seems as if it were made of gravel, not just gargling it replies, "And that was my smoke! I like my store smelling good buddy." The old face stares at the wall beside him, berating heavily. Philip reaches out and places his hand on the crown of the man's skull turning it toward him. The clouded eyes blink rapidly squinting in effort. "Thanks. Now then. Gimme back my smoke!" "How about I give you my patronage? I aim to make a purchase, or several." Philip rebuts. Those dead eyes stare blankly, before a mouth with only a few teeth, those yellowed that remain grins. "Yeah I'll take that. You paying extra for the room though." Philip grumbles, but nods. He realizes his mistake quickly. "That's fine. I'll be browsing for a bit." The old man stares off into the distance. The distance of four feet to the wall in front of him that is. "Yeah. Fine."

The man hobbles off back to the counter, his cane tapping the way there. 'Wonder what his life has been like. Old, ornery, and' he feels the fading bruise on his shin as his aura goes to work. 'Vicious.' He begins to peruse the aisles seeking out his preferred blends. "Hmmm." Bulk pricing? Delightful! The jiggling of the bells draws his attention to the door as a figure just _strides_ on in as if they own the place. A white jacket with a maroon collar, and a bowler hat. The thing that draws Philips attention though isn't the fact that this is Vale's most Wanted. The infamous Roman Torchwick, gentleman thief. It wasn't even his guy-liner. No, it was the fact that this man was a near perfect replica to Hatter. The Hatter. The one from home.

"Hatter-atter… ?" his voices echoes out quietly. Mind the hair is off-putting, but the attitude? The bearing? It's the same. But it can't be him. He's back on earth. He can't exist on Remnant. It's an entirely different world/Dimension. Right? RIGHT? He shakes his head dispelling his paranoia. It's not like they were all lying to him, and this was all a simulation. Like if they put him in a pod, tubes connected to his nervous system, feeding his brain false information about what he's seeing. He blinks. 'That was an old movie, not reality.'

The man looks around the store noticing Philip looking at him. His visible eye narrows.

Roman had been on a role as of late. The lien was flowing and so was the Dust. Hei, his only real threat decided that information would be better than full scale operations. He'd paid off the last real threat he had among the current group of Huntsman Bounty hunters that were searching for him. Those that didn't take the money? They went missing of course. So how does he celebrate? Why how else? Time to re-supply his Cigar stock, and where else but his favorite store in all of Vale. After all, who else can't be bothered to call the police? Someone who can't even see of course! And the old man here knew better anyway.

Those who manage to get out of the life are few and far between, and this guy? He was someone big back in his day. Was, being the factor considered. All the same nobody messes with this guy, out of respect just as much as for his connections. Out of all the suppliers in Vale for smoking, he was the guy to go to. As such his establishment was neutral ground. Only a few of these places exist in Vale, and all are known to those who should know.

Roman saunters in to _**Blue's Smokes **_the familiar tinkle of the bells hitting his ears. The normal 'crowd' is milling about, the hidden guards all prepared just in case some moron tries anything. Seems like some random huntsman wandered in unfortunate enough. Roman tenses up, knowing that he'll have to take this outside as fast as he can. Then again maybe this is the one in a thousand that won't recognize him on sight. Roman narrows his eyes at this guy. Has to be a huntsman, no one else can look that gnarled and still be alive. Shaved head, scars and an eye patch. "See something you like pal? Sorry but I don't swing that way." He tests. The man snorts and nearly stumbles. "My apologies. You look someone I used to know." Roman tightens his grip on Melodic Cudgel. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Used to do odd jobs for him. Finding things, removing things. The like." The man shifts, his lone silver eye wary. Roman looks around, seeing the owner gazing blankly over at the confrontation. He shakes his head. Tch, good enough for him. The guys just a customer for now. One with great taste in former employers, but just a customer. "Sounds like a guy I want to meet. Where would you say he's at then?" The man blinks. He shifts, the tension clear to him. Both he and Roman know what he means. An imitator, an imposter? Either would require a visit.

"Long since lost track of him. Went on a job, came back and he was gone. Rather I got gone. Vale seemed to be a better place all considered." Roman cocks a grin. "Seems like you have a head on your shoulders friend. Still looking for work? I may be able to provide." The man shakes his head. "Many thanks for the offer, but Beacon has many benefits in its employment package."

The store goes quiet. Roman's knuckles go white at the declaration he's gripping his disguised weapon so hard. "Beacon doesn't let just anyone in, particularly at an administrative level." He whispers. The man grins. "Your resemblance to Hatter is showing even more Mr. Torchwick. He too was stunned at my mere existence."

Before Philip knew it, he had the bottom of a cane pressed into his neck. His pulse was rampant, and he could feel his heart trying to leave his chest cavity. Bravado like this sometimes backfired and right now, it seemed like it was doing so spectacularly. The old man with the blind eyes snaps his fingers, and suddenly Philip isn't the only one with a gun pointed at him. The voice of gravel rolls out. "None of that now. You will respect this place Candlestick, same to you cyclops." He mocks. "One-eyed willie here is a paying customer. Same as you. Gonna kill each other do outside." The guns stay pointed at them until Roman puts his cane done on the ground. Philip lets out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding, a cloud of smoke billowing out. Roman waves a hand across his face coughing lightly before seeing Philip suck the smoke back in.

Philip reaches down to pick up his basket, his intended purchases dropped in the sudden confrontation. "I did not intend to start anything. I was aware of this locations shall we say, unique, status." Roman glares at him before scoffing. Glancing into Philips basket he nods appreciatively. "Nice choice." Philip lets a demented grin crack through his façade. His eye glistens as his face seems to distort, almost as if it were plastered on top of his old one. "Goodie. A renowned criminal like my choices!" Philip can feel his face shunt as he reasserts control of his _other_ side. He coughs while Roman backs up.

For just a moment the look in his eye seemed to be just like Neo. The kind of look that promised nothing but pain, and a long gruesome death. Then just as fast it was gone, but Roman knows what he saw. How could he not, it was his business to pay attention to thing that might kill him. That and to make money. This man was dangerous.

Philip rolls his shoulders and shivers. He doesn't spare a second glance at the infamous criminal, now aiming only to make his purchase and leave. Browsing can wait for a different trip. The old man seems to run the register as well despite seeming blind. Philip reaches into his wallet and measures out the exact change. "Have a good evening sir." The old man continues to gaze blankly at the wall. Philip shrugs and leaves the building, the feeling of Roman's eyes following him as he walks out the door.

Taking an immediate left he travels out to the end of the block, before turning left again. He repeats this four more times, passing the store again in his walk. By the time he comes around again Roman is no longer visible through the large glass window. Pulling out his scroll he checks the time. 17:21. 'The smithy will be open for about another hour. I should get going.' Looking behind himself once more, he scans the streets. No tag-a-longs. Good. No weapons on him at the moment, and brutally tearing someone to pieces with his hands might be seen as too much right now. Would make it easier to hide the body however. Hmm.

Philip shakes his head. What is going on right now? His head-space is erratic, violent. 'I normally have a better handle on this. Get your act together Phil!' This blood lust was nothing new to Philip. He'd been fighting it daily since he awoke in the pod. However, his lack of a direct outlet, rather one without negative consequences, was making him… tense would be to ill-fitting a word. Hair-trigger might better fit. He sighs, knowing his own sanity isn't really good at the best of times.

Does being self-aware make it better? Does knowing that you aren't entirely in a fit state of being make you more likely to snap out of it? Philip scoffs. 'Like that kind of childish logic works. This isn't some corny anime where I'll get a dammed power boost along with re-acquiring the ability to trust in my own metal faculties.' The worst of it though? Philip shudders to himself. Everything makes sense. Even knowing that your own mind can turn traitor on itself, seeing things in a distorted light. And yet being able to justify it all the same.

The silhouette of the smithy-shop dispels him from his fugue state. Hopefully acquiring his weapon will better his mood. He eyes the no-smoking sign on the door with a vehemence that would kill a Melonhead outright. Growling he takes the cigar out of his mouth and jams the lit end onto his open palm. The smell of scorched flesh enters the air and he puts the third gone stub back in his mouth. Hey he's not smoking anymore now is he?

Pulling on the door the smell of scorched iron enters his nose, clearing the stink of his own burning skin. His hand is already healing, but his sentiment stands. Bright light shines from the ceiling contrasting the subtle glow of the forges and the machining tables. Walking forward the numerous smiths eye him. One detaches himself from his station and approaches him. As the figure walks closer Philip feels a crick in his neck as his gaze keeps going up. This guy has to be nearly eight feet tall or more! A surprisingly mellow tenor voice emerges. "Can I help you?" Philip clears his throat, "I'm here for my pick up? A spear with a blade-staff extension feature with the order under Philip Kindred?" The giant nods. "Of course. This way then Mr. Kindred." The man turns and gestures him to follow. A few of the other weapon crafters glance up, but then just go back to there work. "The features you requested on this were a pleasure to work on sir." Philip raises his eyebrow. "You were the one that did it?" The giant nods. "Yes, I worked on it. However, I only work on the shifting mechanisms. I will say you seem to have a deep understanding of drafting. The schematics were quite simple to follow, even if the scale was off." A rack lies parallel to the ground, several decorative mounts holding many weapons of varying make, but one that is, in particular, far more utilitarian than the others. "If you would take your piece, we have a small testing center that you may use to see if we have met your specifications, or if some of the mechanics need more fine tuning."

Philip steps up and garbs hold of the simple leather wrapped metal haft, noticing several minute breaks where the shifting mechanisms are. Near the hilt, is a twist that is hard to detect, even in the bright light from the rooms ceiling. He grins. "I would be happy to test this out." He eyes the blade, a thick edge, a good hands-breadth wide, the fuller set in two lines. The point is almost squared, nearly a partisan, a testament to the spear and sword hybrid nature of the weapon. It runs around 8 inches in length from the point to the cross-guard, the ends of which are also pointed and extend an inch and a half from the base of the head.

The giant man motions toward a reinforced door set in an equally sturdy wall off to the side. Philip strides forward and grabbing hold of the door heaves it open. Just as heavy as it looks. Grabbing his spear from where he had set it to lie against the wall he walks into the room. Several training droids of the same make that Beacon uses are idling waiting for activation. The smith waves at Philip through a translucent panel. A small speaker broadcasts his voice. "Okay Mr. Kindred, the droids are set at level 4 for the purpose of this test. Nothing too crazy, but something that should get you sweating." Philip nods, and prepares his stance. "If you twist at the primary groove near the base of the blade the dust chamber will open, and the blade will configure to it Dust caster form. The blue button on the grip in middle of the haft will fire any rounds placed inside, but if you want to cast anything fancy, it won't be with this piece."

Philip twists the blade of the spear opening a small chamber, much like a breech loaded shotgun, and pulling a small Burn Dust vial from his pocket pops the cork. The grains glow a dark red as contact with air prims it for ignition. "Three ounces will get me how many shots?" He asks as he pushes the cover into place. With the dust loaded the blade of the spear splits down the middle, into four separate blade segments. A barrel extends out from between them before the blades retrack in length, hidden joints in the master-crafted metal clamping onto the barrel.

"Maybe eight shots? Depends on the grade dust you used. Now just channel your Aura into the weapon and fire away! I am excited to see my work in action. Droids: Engage Target. Designation: Philip Kindred. Weapons test protocol." The man states. Philip grins, a dull purple glow suffusing the spear, before diming out. Short blasts pf flame sputter out of the barrel, and a small amount of smoke emerges from the wisps of fire, only to be drawn in and absorbed passively by Philips semblance. Three of the drone's flash lights from the visors on the dome that is their facial plates. Stamping the quarterstaffs that run standard with the kit that model of droid against the ground, they array into a rough formation and approach the manically grinning Scavenger.

The retort of Burn dust firing is loud, and the blast from the fireball flying out of the barrel is nothing short of magnificent. Two more are launched in quick succession sending a shot at all present targets. The flames wash over the hardened chassis of the robots, scarcely more than singeing the paint off, but it does its job. That job being to ruin the line of sight of Philip. The familiar lurch of the shifting as he moves to a different spot. The smoke billowing behind the robots even made it deceptively easy. Lunging from inside the cloud of smoke the butt of the spear-blade slams into the back of one of the robots, denting the plate, before the programmed systems tell it to read as 'Dead' for the purpose of the test.

The droid to the left of him swings it's staff down in an arc only to be met halfway. Rather than block full stop, Phillip redirects the blow, Parrying it and leaving the robot open. Stepping into the robot's guard he Headbutts it, reinforcing his forehead with Aura, crumpling the droid's faceplate like tinfoil. Twisting the mechanism, the spear reforms its blade, and the barrel retracts back into the devices hidden inner workings. He sends a series of swift stabs at the remaining training bot, noting the pattern in it's blocks. 'An opening!' There! Right as it brings up the staff to block an overhead slash the shoulder spaulder plate catches on the joint. Exploiting the Weakness Phillip stabs right into the joint in the split second that it locks up from the small catch. The arm pops from the torso as the blade shears right through the armor plate, the sound loud and screeching. The droid powers down, being as 'Dead' as the others. Philip turns to the smith whose grin matches his own. Philip brings up his hand and gives a thumbs-up. "This. This will do nicely." His voice echoes dual-toned.

Rotating his right shoulder until he hears a clicking sound. Glancing down he grimaces. His suit coat is filthy and ripped in several places. 'Maybe I should have taken this off before I did this. Gah, I'll make a note of it for later.' Chewing on his cigar he shuffles over to the doors. Time to put forth payment, curtesy of Beacon academy of course. It would be poor form to have one of the staff without a weapon after all.

* * *

The ground is bleak, broken and blacked though still predominantly the color of earth and soil. Pits of tar, or what seem it bubble and fester on the surface. One such bubble rises to the surface. Slow, and unceasing in its ascent. Others close to it seems almost to lumber, forward, others content to rise at their own sluggish pace grouped up in packs. Other claw forth with great tenacity, a vigor belayed perhaps by youth. Or perhaps just as so many of that bubble rise at once and in massive swaths.

Yet the lone bubble persists. Steady. Unrelenting. Unique among its kind. It remembers. It remembers it's death. A world far away from this one. It should not be here, it thinks. And yet it is. Somehow different, and yet all so similar to what it was before. Beowolves drag themselves ashore of the black pit, while Ursa plod along. humanoid things with screeching voices walk with erratic movements, a mockery of man. And a shape like a cloth emerges, billowing in a wind that does not exist. An arm or perhaps is it three, reaches towards its' chest, where a glowing core no longer remains, only wherein it once was a hollow place, as if a sinking pit of loss.

If it could create sounds it would growl, or perhaps hiss. The arms linger in place whilst newer ones form from the nothingness to reach for its head. The blank mask is still there, the same shape as it was before, but perhaps sturdier? It blinks at this relieved. The mind lingering inside it pauses. It blinked? Glancing around with it perceives its surroundings. This is not a regeneration pod…

Above in a tower of purple crystal, Red eyes set their gaze upon something… new. A deathly pale woman smiles. This should be interesting.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading my inconsistent uploads people of the anonymous interwebs. As usual I claim no basis for regular updates. But on to the story. Things are beginning to be set in motion for the plot, and with this chapter we finally get to the end of what I want to call the introduction.

We have Philip, he has Aura (Mind he's stubborn and uses it to amp his healing and re-enforce his body rather than as an exploitable shield). He has his Semblance which I would like to say is as follows:  
He can absorb smoke from any source and add it to his 'stockpile'. It is a finite resource that he can't generate himself. He can use it to super amplify his healing, regenerating entire limbs if he has access to enough smoke.  
Short range shadow jumps. It is not broken,and the precedent for semblances doing more than one things is clear. Neapolitan's semblance and also Weiss's semblance as well. These jumps will only work if he can see where he is going.  
I don't have a name for the spear yet, and I am open to suggestions.

RESPONDING TO REVIEWS:

poalling12- Thanks for the review! As for the Semblance being a mod well, it's a RWBY version of the Elusive Trait. Speaking of lets give a rundown of Philip in terms of NEO Scavenger.

He has the following Abilities: Strong, Tough, Athletic, Botany, Melee, Tailoring, Lockpicking, and Trapping. Both Unstoppable, and Elusive. The Hidden Abilities that you can unlock through in-game actions and events.

For flaws he has: Smoker (Not really a flaw for now but it'll play into things later on.) Insomniac, Myopia ( Previously telescopic and Night vision , but the cyborg eye is gone (For now) for balance reasons.(He only has one eye now anyway.)) Metabolism-The flaw version of course.

Yes this is more than the base game allows, but I don't care. Any normal human being can pick up skills over time and this the reason he knows more than the average Philip Kindred. Thus logic. Any-who. Have a coffee. Better yet try some chocolate covered espresso beans! You won't sleep for a WEEK!

* * *

Check out poaling12's fic RWBY: Mixed Data. A solid read if I do say so meself. And I do.


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